


End Of All Days

by Minka



Series: The Lup Rosu Files [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes is no female lead or damsel in distress, Cold War, Communism, Dangerous scavenger hunts for magical items, Developing Relationship, Espionage with a side of Tomb Raiding, Guess that means Bucky is Lorraine Broughton, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, KGB, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romanian Bucky Barnes, Russian Bucky Barnes, Russian Mythology, Slow Burn, So much identity porn!, Steve Rogers is totally Indiana Jones, Unreliable Narrator, Vietnam War, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Wordcount: Over 100.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 116,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minka/pseuds/Minka
Summary: Captain Steve Rogers had thought his military days were behind him, left in the bloody nightmare that was Saigon.  Retired and working as a History Professor, the last thing he expected was to get caught up in a cataclysmic Slavic prophesy foreshadowing the end of the known world.With Cold War tensions running high, Steve finds himself in need of a guide and translator to get him behind the Iron Curtain and into the isolated snowdrifts of Siberia.It’s deep in the heart of Bucharest’s resistance fighters that Steve finds the ideal candidate, but swaying the enigmatic ex-operative known as The Winter Soldier proves to be complicated.  Trust is hard-won, especially in the world of espionage, and with a KGB death squad nipping at his heels, the Soldier has countless reasons to stay presumably dead.As the lines between right, wrong and the supernatural begin to blur, Steve is forced to reconsider everything he’s ever believed, right from the sanctity of his own country to the very foundations of creation itself.---Aka the Indiana Jones/Atomic Blonde lovechild of a fic that literally no one ever asked for but you’re bloody well going to get anyway.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: The Lup Rosu Files [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812415
Comments: 641
Kudos: 255
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Housekeeping:**
> 
> Most importantly of all, I’ve got to give a huge shoutout to **Nikalina** ; my cheer-reader, beta, ass-kicker and general, like, personal assistant. This fic has been in the works for almost two and a half years now. It’s been dormant and untouched (but never forgotten) for most of that time. Without her getting involved and literally spending _days_ of her life listening to me, humouring me, dealing with my tantrums etc etc, this thing would still be a forgotten WIP on my laptop. So, Nikalina, thank you! 
> 
> **Heed these warnings** kids ‘cause I’ll only give them once. Things get violent and dark and graphic. There is blood and pain and a chapter with real-world consequences. PTSD features heavily, as does era-specific disregard for it. We’re dealing with racism and classism and communism. Time-specific (as well as country-specific) views on homosexuality feature prominently, as well as some anti-Americanism, given where most of this fic is set. At the request of readers, I will also say that there are some off-screen animal deaths in a later chapter. 
> 
> Yes, this is a fanfic and it has magical elements, but it is set and solidified during a very turbulent point in history. A lot of actual research went into making it feel and read as something historically accurate and believable. 90% of the information that I prattle on about in this fic is real, from the locations to the myth itself. 
> 
> FYI, I have also lived in Romania and a number of other ex-Soviet countries, so I draw a lot of what I know from that, however, I have never been to Russia, nor was I alive during this point in time. 
> 
> Fic title taken from [End of all Days – Thirty Seconds to Mars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C29Cip5btQQ), and Jared Leto’s man bun is my super-hot headcanon for Bucky’s hair…

* * *

**“Everything we do is dangerous.”**

_Adolf Tolkachev, October 11, 1984_

* * *

**Mission Report:** 22nd December 1981

1400 hours

**Vienna International Centre**

48°14′05″N 16°25′01″E

Vienna, Austria

**File:** 6108’46N

**Subject:** Captain Steven Grant Rogers

* * *

Captain Steven Grant Rogers looked the man dead in the eyes. 

“So,” Steve sighed. His voice was raspy and rough from prolonged exposure to the cold, and the need to shout over howling winds. The bruising around his neck sure as hell didn’t help the situation. It hurt to talk, and Steve cleared his throat before reaching for his water.

“You want to know where this all began?” Steve said after a healthy gulp. It burnt just as much as it soothed. 

The agent across from him didn’t so much as blink, at least not when there was a table between the two of them and the semblance of neutral cooperation hanging in the air. It was awkwardly comfortable; an acknowledgement that neither trusted each other but civil propriety strongly suggested that they behave like upstanding members of society. It stopped heads from being slammed into desks and fingers from being snapped like twigs. He eyed the agent with the suspicion of a trapped animal, and the agent, for his part, eyed Steve back. Steve could see the hesitation in the man’s eyes and the mistrust that mirrored Steve’s own. Steve understood it; he really did. It couldn’t have been often that a bedraggled American citizen stumbled – half-frozen and stinking of death – into Ulaanbaatar and demanded to see an ambassador. 

“I’d like to know how and why you appeared in Mongolia,” the agent countered, “close to three months after you severed ties with both the CIA and MI6. While on an important, covert mission, I might add.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow. Three months. Of course, he’d been well aware of the passing of time, but there was nothing quite as harrowing as being reminded just how long he’d been off the grid. Siberia had a way of stealing days and nights, blending them all into one long slog through the wet and cold, only segregated by worried looks and the spray of bullets. 

A lot could change in three months; Steve was the very definition of that. Ideals shifted, thoughts and opinions morphed, and three months was more than enough time to feel the world tip on its axis. Hell, three months ago, Steve wouldn’t have expected this level of hostility from one of his countrymen, especially not a government official, and yet here they were, staring at each other over the shine of a mirror-finished table. 

Steve shifted again, his eyes flicking over the room. It wasn’t dissimilar from the one where this whole mess had started, but there was something hauntingly cold about this place. Maybe it was due to the turbulent political allegiances of Austria and the proximity of the country to the Iron Curtain. Maybe all government buildings shared the same architect. Or, most likely, it was a result of Steve’s altered world view. Three months ago, he’d thought he understood life; right from wrong and what it meant to be on the side of the living and free. 

Now, he wasn’t so sure, and in a strange game of parallels, he felt that the room was representative of his own inner changes. 

“Given the delicate nature of the mission,” Steve said slowly, each word selected with consideration. “I believed it best to keep the involved parties to a minimum.” 

The agent fixed him with a weathered stare, no doubt meant to intimidate. It fell flat; after all that Steve and seen and done, he wasn’t about to worry over a harsh glare, not even one from a government operative. 

“Let’s go back to the start,” the agent prompted. “And perhaps you can enlighten me to why you thought it was your prerogative to make that choice.”

“Well,” Steve breathed. He shifted in his chair. The creak of the metal legs against the floor was loud in the tiny room, momentarily overshadowing the constant whir of the Revox B77 tape deck perched on the edge of the desk. It had been spinning since the moment he sat down, the giant cogs turning and recording each sniff he made or each time he coughed around the pain in his lungs. They’d already changed the tape once, and by Steve’s reckoning, it had to be close to flip two. 

“It began at the dawn of time,” Steve said, “when Chernobog decided that the world should be his-”

“I’m not interested in fairy tales,” the agent cut in. Steve had been expecting it; there was a lot to digest, and it probably wasn’t often that a debriefing started with a Slavic folktale about the creation of night and day, and the battle of good versus evil. 

Steve clicked his tongue in reproach, his bruise-swollen lips pursing in a show of disapproval and his head shaking ever so slightly. 

“It’s rude to interrupt,” he chastised. 

“It’s illegal to ignore the requests of a government official,” the agent shot back, bold as brass. Steve had to give him credit for that one. Snide little thing that he was. 

“Well, Agent… Sitwell, was it?” Steve feigned his bad memory, just to get in under the other’s skin. “If you want to know exactly what happened out there in the cold, then we’re going to have to go back. Right back to where it all originally began.”

Agent Sitwell’s jaw twitched – Steve could see it. The indecision versus the need to know precisely what had happened out in the snowy wasteland of Siberia. Given the way the other man’s hands flicked at the edge of the folder in front of him, and the fact that it was paper-thin, Steve knew that no tales of his exploits in the Soviet Union had filtered through the grapevine yet. Right now, the SHIELD operative had nothing, and if there was one thing that a deeply covert agency within the CIA hated, it was not having all the facts. 

Sitwell was in the dark when it came to this mission, and it was eating him up inside. Steve could just imagine how hard Sitwell’s higher-ups would be coming down on him, demanding that he get to the bottom of the mystery before any possible political backlash erupted. 

Steve wanted to ask Sitwell exactly how that felt. Did the fear of the unknown twist in his gut? Did his head pound at the idea of being forsaken and left stranded and severed from vital intel? Steve knew someone who had experienced just that, and given the current circumstance, there was a large part of him that wanted to gloat. He wanted to highlight that feeling, and drive the panic of being exiled in deep; seek karmic justice for the man that agents like Sitwell had abandoned.

Instead, he jerked his left thumb in the direction of the recording tape.

“You might want to change that over because I don’t intend on repeating myself.” 

Sitwell didn’t take the suggestion well. His jaw twitched, the action a clear indication of him grinding his teeth, but he did reach out and hit the pause button. There was a flurry of unimpressed movement as he switched over the double-reels and started the recording process again. 

Steve started back up the moment the agent turned back to look at him. The coldness in his eyes reminded him of the Siberian winter and calculating gazes in dank concrete halls. 

“The first time I spoke about Chernobog and Svarog was in a room very similar to this one…”

* * *

**Part I Preview:**

“While I’m unauthorized to disclose further information, I am allowed to stress the importance of something like this truly existing. If this staff were to be real, and its powers are true, not only would it prove the existence of inhuman beings, but it could-"

“Win the weapons race and end the Cold War for good,” Steve interjected. Coulson let one eyebrow lift, clearly not anticipating Steve to have thought so deeply on the subject. 

“I may not understand Radio-Nuclear Chemistry or Bio Weaponry, but I understand myths and prophesies.”


	2. Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh, alright. Are we excited? I am! 
> 
> Let’s get this party started.

**_19th October 1981_ **

_Washington, D.C. The United States of America_

_0900 Hours_

* * *

“And how did the documents come into your possession?”

It was a pretty standard question, all things considered, but History and Mythology Professor Steve Rogers wasn’t entirely sure of the best way to answer. It caused his eyes to flick to the side, taking in the space around him and behind the middle-aged man. 

That, Steve decided, was the issue. The room was putting him off, as was the posture of the strange man sitting across from him. The agent was all stiff back and locked elbows as he seemed to shy away from touching the actual file placed in front of him. He had an open face; the sort that could be likened to an eager puppy. But his eyes were calculating. Not cold, per se, but they flicked over the file with a sense of intelligence and quick wit that had Steve’s jaw clenching minutely. 

The room was even more disturbing. There was something hauntingly dangerous about the sterility of the place. Dark wood table, black chairs and white blinds; it gave the illusion of colour while stripping the space back to a monochrome nightmare. 

It mirrored the way the question was asked. Clearly Agent Coulson was interested, his eyes trying not to flick too obviously to the photocopies resting silently between them. Yet he spoke with a sense of casual carelessness, like he was trying to curb his enthusiasm. 

“They appeared on my desk four days ago,” Steve finally answered truthfully. There was no reason to lie to these people. SHIELD was a specialized intelligence unit existing within to the CIA and operating within the parameters of NATO. They were protecting the West from the Communist East, keeping the borders strong and the European and American alliances tight. 

At least that was what they claimed. Why the CIA and their subdivisions cared so much about an obscure Slavic folktale was beyond Steve, especially when the nuclear race was being pushed to the limits. Steve could focus in on these myths and legends – it was his job after all – but the government surely had better things to be worrying about. Things that didn’t warrant _friendly_ interviews in an unfriendly room.

Still, Steve pressed on and recapped what he’d already said. 

It had been Friday afternoon when the file appeared, and he said as much. It hadn’t been there during the morning nor had it been there when Steve had swung via his desk before lunch. It wasn’t until he was packing up the last of his lecture notes that he’d seen it, sitting on the edge of his desk like someone left it there as an afterthought. Clear as day, it balanced on the verge of falling to the floor and disappearing under the mess of his filing cabinet. 

Steve hadn’t thought much of it. He’d reached out to grab it and flipped over the front cover, fully expecting to see a fellow professors’ forgotten notes. 

Steve knew instantly that the folder didn’t belong to anyone else in the university. 

Like anyone would, he’d sent himself to the library and started searching for whatever Russian folklore he could get his hands on. It wasn’t an easy task. Folklore within itself was sketchy at times, then throw in the need for translations from a country that was covertly at war with the rest of the world and knowledgeable sources became hard to find. Everything Steve had was speculation; educated guesses but guesses none the less, but the sketches and the diagrams in the back pages had pushed him to seek further council. 

“I know it’s tedious,” Coulson soothed. “But can you please explain the history of the item one more time.”

Steve’s tolerance was wearing thin despite his usual patience. Coulson was now the third person he had to explain his findings to – after the uninterested receptionist and then a generalized paper pusher – and while he’d been told it was a matter of national security, he was getting a little bored telling the same story. 

“The Slavs have a creation story,” Steve started from the beginning. He paused long enough to take a sip of water. Maybe they’d get the hint at how redundant this all was. “They believe that life was formed and then watched over by Svarog, the god of light. But in a distant, unknown darkness, Chernobog, a god full of injustice and twisted thought, plotted to claim the earth for his own. 

“They entered into a bloody battle,” Steve recited. “Chernobog, with his staff held high, swayed the morality of men and led them and their darkness into a war for the heavens. Svarog and his god-children retaliated, carving the losses on both sides into unmeasured numbers. It wasn’t until a magical chest was created using the power of light and righteousness, that they were able to overthrow Chernobog. 

“He was imprisoned in the chest, he and his staff that was said to be able to corrupt the hearts of men. But the damage was already done, and the world could no longer live in light alone. The Slavs believe that this is how night and day came to be. It was also how evil was born into the world, for Svarog was kind of heart, and didn’t punish his human children for their ability to be corrupted by Chernobog.”

“Thank you, Professor,” the agent in front of him said. Steve could see that the other hadn’t written anything down, though the tape recorder was still whirring with progress. Finally, the agent flicked open the file, the action drawing Steve’s eyes instantly. The top few pages were flicked through until Coulson revealed a grainy photograph of an old cave drawing. 

“Have you heard of a tesseract, Professor?” Coulson asked. 

That was a little left field. Steve cocked his head to the side and nodded slowly. “It’s a theoretical geometric shape created using the concept of a fourth dimension.” 

“It’s also a blanket term that we at SHIELD use for items that could speak of a possible… unworldly power.” 

Coulson flipped back through his paperwork. “You mentioned a staff. The staff of this… Chernobog. Was there any mention of a precious stone on, or embedded in it?”

Steve chewed on his bottom lip as his mind raced. He hadn’t paid any attention to the weapon the god of darkness had wielded – why would he? Yet, he distinctly remembered how the translations he’d read mentioned the colour blue. That it was there as a blurry, borderline untranslatable after thought. An enigma of a multifaceted shape of blue light. 

“Possibly.” It wasn’t the best answer in the world, but it was all he could give. “It could translate, yes. Several of the translations mentioned a blue glow, so it’s possible.”

“Any mention of the shape?” Coulson continued. 

Steve frowned and shook his head. “Not that I know of, but my Russian is non-existent. Going via geometry, though, a cube-like figure would be more cohesive with an early Neolithic time frame so… it’s plausible.”

Coulson nodded to himself and made a small affirmative noise in the back of his throat. It gave Steve the impression that everything he’d just said had fallen on ears that already knew the answer.

“Take a look at this.” Coulson pulled a photo from his file, turning it right way up to slide it across the desk. Steve drew it closer, his eyes skimming over the rock painting depicted. 

It sat on a rocky outcrop that made up the banks of a river. From the look of it, it was shallowly carved, painted white and had somehow managed to survive thousands of years of erosion. While there seemed to be more than one carving in the area, the one highlighted for Steve’s attention showed the form of a tall, lanky human form. A man, no doubt, but one with a perfect square for a head. In his hand he held a staff. 

“This is a photograph from the eastern shore of Lake Onega, Russia. Archaeologists have examined the rock drawings and approximated that they are likely from 5000 BC.” Coulson was watching him, gauging his reaction. Steve could feel it in the strange way the other man’s gaze prickled his skin. It was an exciting find and concept, but Steve wasn’t going to start foaming at the mouth over it. At least not in public. 

Coulson moved on. “No studies have turned up conclusive proof on who made the drawings, however there has been many references made to them over the course of history.

“They call this place Бесов Нос, otherwise known as The Devil’s Nose.” A typed document was placed in front of Steve, next to the photo. “Now I don’t care of the superstition of nomadic countryfolk, but repetition of unsettling events tends to garner my attention. Especially when mixed with legends like yours.”

Steve’s eyes glanced over the file. Mysterious disappearances, unsettling feelings and uncanny heat switching to deathly cold in seconds. It all sounded like something out of a horror novel. 

Or the depiction of an ancient god. 

“You think that these petroglyphs are of Chernobog?” 

“We are beginning to suspect as much.” 

There was a moment of silence. It hung heavy and thick in the room, causing the tension to practically crack around Steve’s ears. Coulson was thinking, waiting for something to click over in his mind before proceeding. The agent glanced to the mirror at the side of the room before continuing. 

“The United States Government has a great interest in this,” Coulson said candidly. Steve was sure it was the most truthful the man had been since they’d entered the closed off room. 

“While I’m unauthorized to disclose further information, I am allowed to stress the importance of something like this truly existing. If this staff were to be real, and its powers are true, not only would it prove the existence of inhuman beings, but it could-"

“Win the weapons race and end the Cold War for good,” Steve interjected. Coulson let one eyebrow lift, clearly not anticipating Steve to have thought so deeply on the subject. 

“I may not understand Radio-Nuclear Chemistry or Bio Weaponry, but I understand myths and prophesies. If this is real,” Steve motioned to the image of the dark god carved so perfectly into the rock, and the photocopied page that had found their way onto his desk. “The results would be catastrophic, either through mystical power,” Coulson shifted slightly, as if the thought made him nervous, but Steve paid it no attention, “or the boost to scientific evolution.” 

“Indeed,” the other man said while collecting the pages from Steve and closing his file. He didn’t look very happy at being cut off, but Steve couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad. 

“You served in Vietnam?” 

Nodding once, Steve tried not to fidget in his chair. “And the years leading up to it.”

“With the rank of Captain, I believe,” Coulson continued. He was pressing for information that Steve wasn’t willing to give. Not that there were any secrets in this room; Steve was sure that Coulson knew more about him that Steve knew about himself.

“But then I left.”

“Discharged,” Coulson continued to pretend to read another file, acting as if he didn’t already know the intricate details of the document. “Honourably and decorated. With medals and a status bordering on the legendary.”

“I like to think of it as just leaving.” Steve ended the conversation with a pointed look and an almost silent clearing of the throat. It was loud enough for the intelligence operative in front of him to understand. 

Coulson tried a different tactic. “I’m not going to beat around the bush, Captain.”

“Professor,” Steve interjected. 

“Of course,” Coulson smiled in a way that completely missed his eyes. “ _Professor_. Professor, The United States – _the Western World_ – needs to find this, preferable long before the Soviets even know of the possibility. Before those who threaten our fundamental right to freedom get their hands on it. Should something like this fall into Communist hands…” he paused, letting the severity of his words linger in the silence. “The results would be cataclysmic.” 

“You believe these stories?” Steve asked. “It’s a myth of old gods created to fill the void that scientific understanding wasn’t advanced enough to answer.”

“We’re honestly not willing to take the risk, real or not. Every story holds an element of truth, and I would rather throw resources at this than have to deal with the consequences of hindsight should this fall into the wrong hands.”

Steve wasn’t too sure what to say to that. He merely nodded and sipped at his water. 

“We would like you to be one of those resources. You are, after all, the best in your field, especially when paired with your military history.” 

And there it was. The killer point that nailed Steve down hard. 

“I’m retired.” 

“We understand that,” Coulson said as if there was someone else in the room. “And we wouldn’t expect you to go in under a military guise. It would be purely academic. We will, of course, provide you with a translator and an armed escort. People on the inside capable of navigating the,” Coulson paused before choosing a word he no doubt deemed appropriate, “problematic relationship between the U.S.S.R. and the United States.” 

“You mean a flashy entourage?” Steve translated. A bodyguard or three and some blonde bimbo translator that would make Steve look like a foreign diplomat or a businessman unafraid of risky investments. Subterfuge and misdirection; that was the game of the Cold War. 

“It would solidify your cover,” Coulson reasoned. He didn’t even bother to try and reword the accusation, which gave Steve the impression that they probably had a busty blonde already waiting behind the doors. 

“I’d rather go alone.” 

He shouldn’t have said it. Not at all. Steve was retired, as he’d just said. He didn’t do those things; not before and not now. No sneaking in the night with a rifle in his hand and a knife at his belt. Blood and the popping of bullets and Steve had to breathe in deep to remind himself where he was. 

Climate controlled room; agent in front of him and dusty blinds on the windows. 

God, when was the last time they’d cleaned this room?

The trivial, mental tangent helped Steve remain calm and fight the demons nipping at the back of his throat like bile. 

“With all due respect, Captain,” Coulson used the title in a tone that didn’t allow Steve the chance to correct it. “This isn’t Saigon or the jungles of ‘Nam. While I understand what you experienced in the war, this is a different playing field. We’re not technically at war with the U.S.S.R., not outwardly at least. The battle isn’t fought with soldiers and machine guns; it’s done with knowledge and the gathering of intelligence through covert opportunities.” 

Coulson shook his head and offered Steve what seemed to be a close impression of an understanding smile. Something about it missed the mark though and Steve felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“You’re out of your depth on this one,” Coulson finished. “And while we need your expertise, you will need the help of our agents in order to survive.” 

The air in the room was getting thin; Steve could feel it as he sucked in a breath. It was getting hard to keep his head clear, hard to get the oxygen that he needed. It was all the leaves; they made an impenetrable canopy around him that felt so suffocating. 

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. White room. Desk. Seat. Annoying government agent. He listed the things around him in his mind, reminding himself where he was. Who he was. 

No leaves. No mud. The sound of a tape recorder whirring. His own breathing. It was loud in the silence, prompting Steve to remember that Coulson was waiting for an answer. 

It was one that Steve couldn’t give. Not now. Not here in this tiny space. 

“I need to think about it,” Steve said. He was standing before he’d even finished talking. The room was too hot. _Too cold_. He needed fresh air and to be away from the burning of the fluorescent lights and the eyes watching from the dark. 

“Of course.” There was no questioning his actions, no asking if he was alright even as his skin turned ashen and damp. In the back of his head, Steve knew why; they knew. Knew that he carried demons of the war. So many Vets did. It wasn’t a surprise, not after what they’d been through. 

Sticky and flushed, Steve knew he wasn’t in the jungle as he wrenched open the door and made his way into the corridor. But it felt like he was. That balmy heat that came with the wet and left soldiers sodden and rotting in their clothes was there, prickling at the back of his collar. A centipede on his skin and the roar of a tiger in the background. Screams and the feeling of falling, falling through the jungle floor and into the bloody mud. 

Steve ignored it. Corridor. White lights. Tiles with grime in the grouting. Door. 

He painted the picture of his reality in his head, naming the things he passed and keeping his eyes on the exit. No one followed him and while Steve didn’t know why, he could hazard a few guesses. He wasn’t a detained criminal, for one, and thus was free to come and go as he pleased. He also wasn’t a meek civilian either, and given the outbursts of events on the news, these government suits no doubt knew better than to sneak up on a stressed-out Vet. 

And yet here they were asking him to go back in. 

It wasn’t Nam though. It was different. That was what Coulson had said. It would be different this time, and Steve was right back there on base, his hair blowing as the chopper propellers roared into life. 

“It’ll be different this time,” he repeated to the troops watching him. To _his_ troops. The general had assured him, so now it was Steve’s job to assure them. They weren’t going to the jungle this time. They were dropping into the city. It would be different. 

It was different. They still died, but they did die _differently_. 

*****

It wasn’t even a full day later that Steve found another file on his desk. This one looked different, a little more worn around the edges and with a ring of stain that smelled like coffee on the front.

A quick perimeter check brought up nothing. No signs of forced entry, nothing out of place or suspicious and unknown. Other than the folder. 

At first, Steve didn’t want to touch it. Didn’t want to know what was inside or feel the taint of whatever information would be waiting once he flipped it open.

It was self-preservation at its finest. What Steve didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Couldn’t stalk him through the darkness of his apartment and drive him into the hot waters of his shower. It had taken him all night to calm himself down. Sitting in the bottom of the shower with a bottle of whiskey and his eyes closed, he’d recited the things in his bathroom like some mystical mantra. 

It had helped, of course, but it hadn’t been easy, and his night had been restless and filled with flashes of blood. He could remember trying to wash it away with cold water, scrubbing and scrubbing and yet always being so damn sticky and red all the time. The shower was different. It was soothing and fresh and left his skin pink in a clean way. It washed away his memories and drowned his sins.

It had been a sleepless night and the hangover this morning hadn’t been all that pleasant, but it did help to solidify his place in the world. Alcohol hadn’t been available in the jungle, so the throb of his head was an unsettlingly positive feeling. Even if he had spent the majority of the day waiting for the university receptionist to hammer the last nail into his coffin by bringing him another summons from Coulson.

Steve still hadn’t made up his mind, and Coulson hadn’t pressed him. Not yet at least. Steve knew it would come, though, and that it was only a matter of time before he had to make the hard decision and either commit or deny the request. 

Despite all his hesitations, Steve was still a slave to his own vices, and his mind screamed at him to pick up the folder. Look at it. Read it. 

Sink further. 

He eyed the folder with a sense of suspicion, already knowing that there would be nothing good inside. Still, curiosity pulled at Steve and he was annoyingly unable to resist. He snatched the folder up with a shaking hand before leaning against the edge of his desk and flipping it open. 

He’d expected to see something else about this Russian myth. Maybe a document outlining some of the beliefs of the people based around The Devil’s Nose. It could have even been a folder outlining some of the nuclear advancements the USSR claimed to have and how devastating the fallout would be should they detonate. That would have played on Steve’s heartstrings and solidified his resolve to the cause. 

Yet it was none of those things, and Steve felt a frown creep across his face as his eyes skimmed over the first page. 

It was a military enlistment form; Steve had seen enough of them over the years to know exactly what they looked like without reading a single word. Name and date of birth and height and blood type and then a number that replaced all personal details. 

The candidate was one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. The word ‘ _Bucky_ ’ followed, no doubt a nickname of sorts, and his number 32557038. 

Before even getting the chance to read his stats and humanize Barnes in his mind, Steve’s eyes were pulled to the middle of the paper. There was a word stamped in red across the first page which gave a clear indication to the man’s current whereabouts. 

‘ ** _Deceased_** ’.

Dead and gone, and maybe it was horrible, but Steve found his attention span wavering. He’d seen enough death in his time and dedicated more than a few gulps of the bottle to fallen comrades, even just last night. 

He didn’t know what some dead Sergeant had to do with anything or why it warranted a dead-drop on his desk, but Steve had too much on his mind already. At least that’s what he told himself.

If it wasn’t for the photograph, he might have even closed the file.

It was a faded thing, tacked to the bottom of the page on the left-hand side and showing a young man sitting on a jeep and nursing a M21 sniper rifle in his lap. He looked like any of the kids Steve had served with in Vietnam; oiled back hair and a cigarette dangling from lips set into a smile. The expression lit up his whole face, putting a sparkle in his eyes that painted a strange contrast to the gun in his hands. Dog tags hung around his neck, sitting in the open V of his shirt, the silver looking white with overexposure.

He was just a kid and something about that hit home. Steve had been nineteen when he’d enlisted; he knew what it was like to feel tiny and young and yet so adult when handed a gun. 

Steve gave in and skimmed the fact sheet. Born in Romania, immigrated at fourteen. Recruited into Operation Insight in 1964. He would have been seventeen. 

There was no information on what Operation Insight was, but Barnes’ abilities and subsequent training helped fill in the blanks. He was apparently trilingual, fluent in both Romanian and Russian as well as English, and was able to hold basic conversations in German, French and Hungarian. His records showed that he was a crack shot with numbers Steve could only dream about achieving. A target accuracy sitting at ninety-eight-point seven per cent over a two-kilometre range was something that Steve felt should be impossible. He’d never heard of numbers like that, especially not in the war he’d fought. Nam had been about the spray of bullets and boobytraps in the jungle, not the finer points of targeted snipers. 

Despite all that, realization didn’t click until Steve saw proof of what was already growing in his mind.

Level C SERE training completed at the J.F. Kennedy Special Warfare Centre and School. 

Steve himself had been through SERE training. Level A though, made for the everyday soldier who ran the risk of being lost behind enemy lines. Level C was above him; made for the important people in high places. Diplomats and their families, or, more commonly, cannon fodder with information, put into situations that marked them likely to undergo capture. It taught prison camp survival and resistance to physical and psychological torture. Means to mentally recondition yourself to forget vital information; save the cause, protect the nation and give nothing away. 

It was dark shit, selectively elite military training. Covert operations. 

Steve knew of a few people who would have called it spy school. 

The rest of the information clarified Steve’s assumptions. The military, namely the CIA, had made a weapon of this Romanian immigrant and they’d renamed him The Winter Soldier. 

As much as it pained Steve, he knew it was a good tactic. Take the wide-eyed refugee and shape them into a weapon of mass destruction. Promise them the world, promise safety for their family all for a once off, small service. They’d be sent back to where they came from, trained and deadly and ready to infiltrate as a way to work off the friendly debt of becoming American. 

Clearly Barnes excelled at his job. There were numerous reports of his success, page after page of transcripts formed mostly of black blocks. Whoever had made the copies didn’t have clearance to the classified documents, so it was mostly blotted out rubbish, but the sheer volume suggested that The Winter Soldier was an above-average operative. 

It all came to a head in January of 1977 though, nine years after Barnes was first deployed. Nine years was a _long_ time. A long run of playing both sides and maintaining a steadfast cover, of straddling borders and relaying messages. An eternity of lies and dangerous situations and illegal contact with the West while doing god-only-knew what in order to maintain his cover in the Eastern Bloc. It was no wonder the file was thick with the details of Barnes’ exploits. 

But in January of 1977 Barnes’ luck had run out. The Soviets clued in and the KGB took James Buchanan Barnes into custody; Steve couldn’t stop reading. 

The information got sketchy after that. There was talk of extraction, though the operation was put on hold when Barnes’ location was revealed to be Lubyanka, the KGB headquarters and known maximum security prison for dangerous enemies of the state. Deep underground and right in the heart of Moscow, it didn’t make for an easy prison break. 

A single page documented the months that followed. There were random moments of contact with other undercover agents, but nothing of substance. Mostly it was taunts from the Soviet Government depicting his condition. Sleep deprivation and temperature torture. Waterboarding; humiliation; sensory deprivation; the list went on, each point turning darker and more sinister as desperation to break him set in. There was another picture attached, dated September 21st, 1977 and addressed to the head of the CIA. It showed a gaunt Barnes in a tiny cell, more bruise than man and looking less than half alive. It was a haunting change from the kid Steve had seen on the cover; the one with the sparkling eyes and the smile that seemed to light up the day.

Steve turned the page and flinched, almost dropping the folder. 

It was blurry and pixelated, clearly blown up larger than its intended size and rendered on a bad printer, but there was a photo of Barnes’ demise. Executed by a bullet to the back of the head, he’d met his end slumped over an interrogation table with his face a mess of dark hair, brain matter and blood. 

It was December. He’d survived almost twelve months in the clutches of the KGB before they’d tired of him; realised that they couldn’t break him, no matter what they tried.

Barnes hadn’t even made it to his thirties.

Steve felt ill. He’d seen the effects of containment at the hands of the enemy, seen the devastating mental deterioration that set in even after just a few weeks. The idea of months – eleven and a half long months – of being imprisoned by the world’s deadliest government was beyond incomprehensible. 

He didn’t know why he turned the page. Didn’t know what darkness in him made him want to see more. But he did. In a way, he felt like he owed it to Barnes, to the soldier who wouldn’t be publicly remembered and whose life had boiled down to nothing more than a number, a codename and a classified, blanked-out file. 

Steve was at least glad to see that his hand shook as he moved the death photograph and turned to the last section of the file. He didn’t know what to expect. Some horrible tale of corpse disposal, or a nondescript, cold worded letter sent to his grieving mother. 

There was another photo, this one in colour and slightly tacky to the touch. It wasn’t a reprint from a classified file; this was an original, tucked right into the back of the papers that detailed Barnes’ hard life and unfortunate end.

It showed a man with dark shoulder-length hair, scruffy stubble and eyes set with black liner. Those eyes; steely blue with tinges of gunmetal grey seemed older than the face that contained them. Lips were set in a grimace; Steve imagined a cigarette hanging from the edge of the man’s mouth. 

It was Barnes or hell, if not, it had to be his identical twin. He was older than the jeep photo, filled out and confident and dressed all in black, so it had to have been taken before he was captured, before he’d turned to skin and bone and sallow skin. He would have looked like any punk kid if it wasn’t for the unmissable bulk of Kevlar and leather and the PSM pistol gripped in his gloved hand. Someone had scrawled 'Brasov’ across the background, and while Steve was no geography guru, he was pretty sure that was a town in Romania. 

The handwritten note also read ‘ _Lup Rosu_ ’ just above Barnes’ head, a question mark giving suspicion to the statement. In the bottom right corner of the image was a time and date stamp, and Steve only glanced at it before doing a double-take. 

23rd March, 1979. 

Steve’s eyes narrowed as he flipped back through the sheets, searching for the information that his mind was struggling to process. It was there on the front page, the personal fact sheet. Deceased. Executed for treason in Lubyanka, December 17th, 1977. 

Steve breathed out, long and deep. He hadn’t even realised that he’d been holding his breath. His body deflated with the action, his posture changing from leaning against the desk to being slumped on the edge of it in a physical representation of the shock and confusion that he felt. 

How the fuck was someone taking candid photographs of James Buchanan Barnes in the Socialist Republic of Romania a year and a half after his death? 

And, what’s more, why did someone want Steve to know?

*****

**Part II Preview:**

They brought his whiskey in one of those funny little glass bottles that only held one standard shot of the liquid. 

It really wasn’t what Steve had been hoping for and he contemplated the shame involved in asking the hostess to bring the whole carton for longer than anyone would deem acceptable. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, [Бе́сов Нос](https://www.google.com/search?client=firefox-b-d&q=%D0%91%D0%B5%D1%81%D0%BE%D0%B2+%D0%9D%D0%BE%D1%81) is totally real! Super cool, hey? Literally, all the places I talk about in this fic are 100% real, and about 90% of the myth and legends surrounding them are also based on fact. I’ve just inserted my own Chernobog and Svarog concepts into what already exists. 
> 
> Anyway. How are we all feeling? Did you enjoy the Bucky file? I enjoyed writing that. It was a lot of fun. 
> 
> If you like playlists and moodboards/lyric booklets etc, you can check them out [here](http://www.minkawrites.com). You’ll also see a little preview of some art that’s going to be scattered through this fic. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos fuel me, especially in these self-isolated days. I’d be lonely if I wasn’t such an introvert 😉


	3. Part II

**Part II**

  
"You do realise that you have no clue who left this file, right? Either of them.” 

Sam was always the voice of reason. That little angel on Steve’s shoulder that told him when he was doing something incredibly stupid and narrow-minded. When he wasn’t looking at the larger picture and was rushing blindly into something. 

Like now. Sam was right, of course. Steve should have been spending more time stressing about the security of his office than the contents of the mystery files that kept appearing there, but that wasn’t the way Steve was wired to think. His brain was asking questions and starving for answers, and none of them revolved around better security checks or an updated lock. He should be wondering how someone knew his schedule so well, or, more importantly, why someone was targeting him with this information. 

The first file should have been enough. Mythical legends of good and evil, gods clashing over the souls of humankind. If there was even an ounce of reality in the story, then it was heavy and troubling. But it was also just a story. No matter how important the CIA thought the information to be, it was still based on the folklore of a secluded populace. They could go on their expedition and uproot half of the continent and the chances of finding anything were so slim that it hardly registered on a viable threat level. 

Seeing the photo of Bucky – _James_ , Steve had to remind himself – held more power. The man in the photo was real; had been alive and smiling once. He’d been young and impressionable and relaxed, even in grainy black and white. 

That was why it had hit Steve so hard. 

There was undeniable truth in that file. A story that was real and sad and unforgiving, yet which still lead to a mystery that Steve couldn’t wrap his head around. It haunted him; taunted him each time he tried to clear his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of Barnes being left out in the cold by the country he’d been fighting to help. Steve tried to imagine how that would feel, and how his own mind would come to terms with the knowledge that he’d been left to die. 

Steve had spent the last few nights tossing and turning as his imagination tried to take over. He thought of Vietnam, of the alien landscape and foreign traditions. The strange food and the sight of blood splattered across the green of the jungle. 

He tried to imagine what it would feel like to be there forever. To be stranded and stuck with no way out. No hope of the war ending and no saviour in sight. 

Steve knew that if James had been one of his men in Nam, then things would have been different. Steve didn’t believe in trading lives, nor did he believe in leaving anyone behind. Lubyanka be damned; to him, Barnes could have been in the middle of bloody Saigon and Steve would have still made the effort to get him out. 

That was, after all, how he and Sam had first met and, Steve guessed, was the basis for Sam’s habit of pointing out when Steve was on the verge of doing something incredibly stupid. Sam had seen it firsthand. 

The practical side of Steve’s mind also reasoned that it was why the file had been put on his desk in the first place. A covert attempt at appealing to the side of him weakened by his want to help others. Selflessness could be a burden in a dangerous situation.

At first, Steve had assumed that Coulson had been responsible for leaving Barnes’ file on his desk, but now he wasn’t so sure. Why replicate the drop of the first file and not just give Steve the information on Barnes? It also didn’t quite seem right to leak covert operations to a civilian still tittering on the edge of decision. There were plenty of other ways to secure Steve’s cooperation than by taunting him with classified information about an abandoned spy. 

“I do know that, Sam.” Steve felt like it would be a death sentence if he added ‘I’m not stupid’ to the end of that. He’d tried that method of rationalization before to little effect and honestly, Sam’s retaliation wasn’t worth the gratification of the sass.

“And someone else knows that your new mystery man is alive,” Sam continued. “If that _is_ even him.” 

Steve took a gulp of his beer to buy himself time. Sam had a good point there and Steve hadn’t really given it too much thought. He’d been so caught up on the abandoned soldier far from home, and the horrifying story of what had happened to Barnes, as well as the mystery of his reappearance to look beyond the story. Someone knew – or at least suspected – that Barnes was still alive. They had photo evidence and a Romanian nickname as proof. 

So where was this person now, and why leave the bread crumbs on Steve’ desk?

Sam must have sensed Steve’s inner reflection as he backed his statement up with more cold, hard facts. “They’re using you to flush him out. Apparently,” Sam wiggled his fingers in the air around his head, highlighting how over the top eerie the whole thing was. “He’s a ghost. Entire governments have spent years looking for him without so much as a whisper so they’re using you and your silly hero complex and weakness for pretty smiles to go and do their dirty work.”

That was the other annoying thing about Sam. He knew everything. _Everything_. Ever since Steve had fished him out of a sea of bodies and a marsh made of blood, they’d become close. It was hard not to after the horrors they’d survived together. But friendship meant truth, and truth meant everything, at least for Steve. And so, if he decided to let someone in and let them be close, then it was an all or nothing arrangement. 

Sam knew everything about him. From his nightmares of tigers in trees and hallucinations of spikes in the ground to his habit for falling for all the wrong sorts of people. Male people. Strong arms and pretty smiles and the ability to hold their own against Steve’s own might – both physically and mentally – and Steve was always a goner. It would leave Sam rolling his eyes and sighing and wishing that Steve could just get his shit together. 

It wasn’t that Sam judged him for his preferences – they wouldn’t have been friends if he did – but it was more that Sam didn’t understand Steve’s constant hesitations. He wasn’t one to suffer Steve’s jittery bullshit or endure the endless string of double guessing and self-doubt that Steve tended to ramble on with. 

Steve shook his head. “You’re jumping to conclusions,” he reasoned while trying to deflect. Sam clearly wasn’t happy with this turn of events, offering Steve a shrug and a raised eyebrow while lifting his beer to his lips. “Governments aren’t looking for him. He’s dead.” 

“So, it’s not an international power leaving you glamour shots,” Sam mused, “but instead some ungoverned operative with Romanian intel who clearly has access to your place of work.” Sam flashed him a smile that bordered on the patronizing. “Tell me how that’s better?”

Damn, Sam. Damn him to hell.

“God strike me down,” Sam cursed, “It _is_ because of the smile, isn’t it?”

“Sam.” Steve rolled his eyes and fixed a weathered expression on his face. “It’s not because of a smile.” He laughed a little, mostly to hide the doubt he was already starting to feel at his own lies. It had been that photograph that had spurred him into reading the file; he’d been ready to dump it until he saw Barnes sitting on that jeep. “I sure as hell don’t need to go halfway around the world and into enemy territory to get a date.”

“Well you ain’t getting none here,” Sam muttered. It was meant to be under his breath, but Steve heard it. 

“What?”

“I’m just saying. You haven’t seen anyone in a while, and so this guy,” he waved his hand in a generalized direction, as if Barnes was someone Sam could point out in a room. “Is clouding your judgement with his pretty eyes and sob story.” 

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?”

Steve had to give it to him. It was a valid question and one that he wasn’t so sure he could answer. Maybe it was the mystery of it all. Steve always loved a good challenge and getting to the bottom of Barnes’ apparent reincarnation was certainly the best he’d been presented with in a long while. Or perhaps it was based on guilt. The idea that someone had promised Barnes the world and then hung him out to dry. It reminded Steve of his own superiors and the orders he’d blindly followed through what he now saw as a pointless war. 

As soon as his mind went there, the guilt ran deep and undeniable. 

Or maybe it was all about that damn smile. Steve would be lying to himself if he tried to believe that it had no effect on him at all. 

“I need a guide.” It sounded like a weak response even to Steve, but it was the best he could do.

Sam was always too good at calling Steve out on his shit. “A guide? Didn’t government suit-man offer you a guide?”

“A stuffy task force,” Steve corrected. “If this… _thing_ really does exist, a bunch of pampered, political-minded city dwellers aren’t going to be of much use.” 

Beside him, Sam paused for a moment, his beer held halfway to his lips. Steve almost thought that Sam didn’t have anything else to say on the matter, but the tug of a smirk at the corners of his lips beat down that wish. 

“But a double agent ghost story marked as dead is going to do the trick?”

Steve chuckled dryly and raised his beer. “Yeah.” 

Clearly Sam wasn’t expecting such a clear-cut answer. He almost flinched at the word, his beer dinging loudly on the bar as he put it down. 

“He’s exactly what I need,” Steve reasoned back. He quickly rolled his eyes and added, “and not in _that_ way.” He was sure that there was logic here somewhere, he just had to find it and reason it out in a way that Sam would understand. “They can’t find him because he is as good as his file suggests.” 

“And that’s reassuring how?”

“Means he’s amazing at what he does and…”

“And?”

“Well, I need someone with plausible cover to get me across a closed border. And through a country where I neither speak the language nor have the skills to navigate. Someone who knows the ins and outs of the U.S.S.R., politically and physically.” Steve was proud. This was all sounding highly reasonable, and like a perfectly good, unbiased argument for seeking Barnes out. “Someone who’s going to be able to translate and not sell me out in the process.” 

Silence fell and Steve steadied himself for the onslaught of opinions Sam would no doubt have on the matter. Sam took a swig of his beer, plonked it down and hit Steve with something unexpected. 

“That’s assuming that you’re going to go.” It was Sam’s way of dealing with Steve’s overwhelming stupidity, and his narrowminded ordeals. Steve was sure that Sam – ever the voice of reason – had a lot more going on in his head, but sometimes it really was easier to take a drink and just let Steve have his way.

Steve just smiled and lifted his beer to his lips again, not even surprised at how quickly Sam had changed the subject. His friend had clearly been fishing for clarification on Steve’s intentions since the conversation had started. 

“Yeah, that’s assuming.” 

The truth of the matter was that his mind had already been made up. He’d been close in that corridor with the promise of fresh air ahead of him and Coulson far behind. He’d been close when he’d sat on the floor of his shower and drowned his problems and sorrows. Guilt and responsibility and fear of the unknown had spurred him on. 

He’d been close but terrified to make take the final step. That was, at least, until the moment James Buchanan Barnes had smiled at him from that jeep. 

Sam was right; for all Steve’s academic intelligence, he’d always been a fool for a pretty smile. So much so that it hadn’t even occurred to him that the mission wasn’t actually ‘Find Sergeant Barnes’.

*****

They brought his whiskey in one of those funny little glass bottles that only held one standard shot of the liquid. 

It really wasn’t what Steve had been hoping for and he contemplated the shame involved in asking the hostess to bring the whole carton far longer than anyone would deem acceptable. 

Something about flying never sat right with him. Especially now. At least there’d been air in the choppers during the war. Lots of air, and the occasional spray of bullets. 

Being closed in and strapped down made his senses launch into overdrive, his heart racing to keep the clamminess from his hands. 

Of course, it didn’t help that his mind was all too happy to wallow in the insanity of what he was actually doing. The reason he was flying again in the first place. 

It had all seemed like fun and games while talking to Sam. He’d laughed things off, seen the adventurous side of the situation all while rebuking the idea of some ghost story spy being noticeably attractive. It had been harmless and fun. A silly notion that was so far removed from reality that Steve had been able to trick himself into being comfortable with everything. 

Even confirming his intentions to Agent Coulson had been easy, the words coming out of Steve’s mouth like he was in a daze of hyperreality and suspended realism. 

It was the sleepless nights that started to hammer his foolishness home. The cold sweats and shake of his hand as he sipped his morning coffee. 

After Steve had signed on the proverbial bottom line and promised his services to the CIA division known as SHIELD, then the world around him was pushed into a motion that Steve struggled to keep pace with. Cogs worked behind the scenes, pieces of a larger puzzle falling into place as Steve seemed to bounce from one meeting room to the other. 

He didn’t give notice at the university, nor did he ask for time off. The government took care of that, and Steve, for his part, was set to continue to collect his paycheque while ‘in the line of duty’, as Coulson had put it. 

With his life being swept up and compartmentalized by Coulson and his team, Steve had found his time being taken up in other ways. Books and academic articles were pushed at him. Steve hadn’t even heard of some of the titles and authors before, let alone known that anyone had access to some of the rarer, more obscure volumes of early Rus history. 

Russian literature and culture had never been Steve’s strongest point, and while his knowledge of Svarog and Chernobog had seemingly landed him in this mess and marked him as an expert, there was still a lot that he didn’t know. There was, of course, only so much a scholar outside of the Soviet Union could know. 

Steve taught myth and legend as a worldwide whole, tracking and following the ways that historical religious beliefs impacted the growth and mindset of various peoples and their nations. His Russian knowledge boiled down to two weeks of lectures, taking the concept of warring gods and pitting their stories against the concept of Communism and the literary works of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. 

Taken off his teaching roster and all but handed over to the CIA, Steve had endless time to immerse himself in further research. Coulson had been more than accommodating, showering Steve with obscure articles and satellite images that might prove useful, as well as translated documents outlining various wars, plagues and mass deaths during early Slavic history. 

It took the CIA four days to get their ducks in a row, and by the time they were ready to ship Steve out to meet up with the rest of the task force, Steve had narrowed down a number of real-world possibilities for the location of the mythic battle. 

Steve had lost himself in the research, giving himself over to the idea of an international scavenger hunt. It reminded him of stories from Egypt, and the push to uncover tombs and valuables that had been so widely spread through the archaeology circles. 

His days had passed with his head buried in books as his hands hastily scribbled notes. At night when he couldn’t sleep, Steve sketched ideas and places, his fingers outlining concepts of these gods, and the staff that could possibly end the world. It was easy to ignore the reality of the situation, and the idea of willingly walking himself into something that he didn’t understand. 

When he’d returned from Vietnam, Steve had told himself that his military days were behind him. He’d never hold a gun again; he’d never have to weigh a life against his own and decide to pull the trigger. Given what little he knew of Cold War relations, he was able to convince himself that this mission wasn’t going to go against that personal promise. Tensions between the U.S.S.R. and America weren’t of the bullets and death kind. This war was about intelligence and the race of science. 

It wasn’t until the night before flying out that Steve had really felt the weight of his decision to be involved. 

Steve’s mind was a kaleidoscope of broken fears and fractured thoughts, so much so that he’d barely flinched when he’d found another file. It didn’t even strike him as odd that it had been slipped under his door. 

His apartment door. 

Too lost in the mystery, he’d calmly picked it up while sliding the lock home and had flipped it open on his kitchen counter. The yellowing wallpaper of the room matched the discolour of the paper; a strange mottled brown that looked like it had seen better days. There was a smudge of something reddish that had been wiped at roughly and left to dry in a place that smelt like smoke. 

The first page was hastily typed text, the paper creased with the force of the typewriter as if someone had hated each and every key press. At first, Steve had thought someone had died on their typewriter as the letters were a jumbled mess of nonsense, but after a second look, he was able to identify a few words, or at least their Latin counterparts. 

Steve wasn’t completely sure, but he’d guess that the file was written in Romanian. 

He could make little sense of what the short paragraph was about, but two sets of words were aggressively circled and underlined in red pen. _Moșul Pricolici_ and _Red Door._ Steve had no clue what either meant, but the way they were capitalized suggested that they were either a name or a place. Neither idea really narrowed the mystery down. 

With a sigh, Steve had flipped the page over, hoping for something more informative. 

The photo that greeted him threatened to stop Steve’s heart in his chest. 

It was Barnes, again, though this time there was no possible doubt that he was him. Almost front on and taken close, it was only the strange haze and angle of the photo that suggested it had been taken while slunk down low in a car. The lighting and shadows suggested that it must have been early morning.

Barnes had his long hair up in a messy bun and a lit cigarette shoved between his lips. He was leaning back against a wall, his right knee bent so his heavy boot could press against the crumbling cement. He was once again in black, the clothing tight fitted in a way that seemed almost too bulky, drawing Steve’s mind to the conclusion that there was body armour hidden under the heavy peacoat. While it was no close up glamour shot, Steve was sure he could see a scowl between Barnes’ eyebrows, and if he looked hard enough, he was sure Barnes was looking shiftily to the side – like he knew someone was watching – though maybe that was just shadows deepened with anti-reflective paint smudged around his eyes.

The photo perfectly captured the essence of a thief in the night, or a spy accustomed to operating in the deep shadows of an oppressive government. 

That small fact snapped Steve out of his intense scrutiny of the man and caused him to focus on the rest of the image. Slowly the details started to become obvious, popping out of the image and pique Steve’s attention. 

There was another man standing with Barnes, this one taller and broader, his muscled back covering Barnes’ left and blocking out the side of the photo. There was an area of darkness behind him and from the shape and straightness of it, Steve guessed that the bear of a man was standing in front of a door. The backdrop was dreary and decrepit; crumbling brick smeared with shoddy concrete. Steve was no expert, but it seemed to scream Soviet Block; a hasty rebuild after the near-apocalyptic desecration of WWII. 

But the jackpot was above Barnes’ right shoulder. An old sign tacked to the wall with what Steve guessed was a street name. It was charred and smudged and overexposed in the camera lens, but Steve was sure he’d be able to put it together with a map eventually. 

Handwritten on the bottom of the image where the shine of a car door gave away the covert nature of the photograph, were the words Bucureşti. 19th October 1981.

Steve glanced at his calendar just to confirm what he already knew. That was only two weeks ago. 

Clearly someone was keeping very close tabs on Barnes’ movements through Romania. 

Steve couldn’t deny that it made him paranoid, but it certainly did make his life a lot easier. The fact that Barnes was now – or at least very recently – in the capital was also a benefit. It would be a lot easier to try and make his way there than into an out of the way Transylvanian town. 

But that still didn’t banish Sam’s reasoning from his mind. 

_“_ _They_ _’re using you to flush him out.”_

Even now, sitting in his cramped seat and eyeing the irritatingly small bottle of whiskey, Steve felt his heart race at the idea. A covert treasure hunt through a closed nation was one thing, and, in so many strange little ways, it appealed to Steve far more than it should. But this parade of information of James Barnes was something else entirely. 

Steve couldn’t quite put his finger on why it made him so nervous, or, worse still, why it called to him even more than the mission at hand. 

Sam had been right. Someone was using Steve to flush Barnes out, but no matter how many ways Steve’s mind put all the little pieces together, he couldn’t seem to work out why. What was the endgame here? And if someone already knew where Barnes was – which, clearly they did – why get Steve involved? 

The paranoid side of Steve jumped to conclusions of espionage and Barnes already knowing where this scavenger hunt would lead. Yet even that seemed too straight forward. If Barnes did in fact have knowledge of Chernobog’s sceptre, then why involve Steve at all? 

With his mind reeling and his nerves buzzing in his ears, Steve downed his whiskey and waved the stewardess over to get another. 

It was going to be a long flight.

*****

**Part III Preview:**

“That’s all well and good,” Peggy rationalized, “but we have no reason to enter the Romanian Republic.” 

“I hear gypsy chicks are hot,” Rumlow offered and Steve was glad to see he wasn’t the only one rolling his eyes. Peggy looked exasperated while Bruce made a half-assed attempt to correct the assumption. “That’s a reason, right?”

“I don’t think that’s how they-” Whatever Bruce was trying to say about the racial slur was cut short by Rumlow high fiving the guy next to him as they both jeered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given all the stress of life right now, I'm pretty surprised I got this out. COVID-19 has fucked up my reality hard, and I'm stuck between trying to be proactive and get the future sorted vs binge-watching Gilmore Girls while sobbing into a tub of icecream and just giving up on life. 
> 
> So, enjoy your chapter and like, don't be dick. Leave kudos or a comment with some feedback or something. I'm living off that shit right now. :)


	4. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to update this early. Mostly because… I just don’t know what is going to happen to the world. 
> 
> Short version is that I’m an Australian currently in Athens. I’m safe and comfortable in a rental and have a whole fridge full of food and alcohol. And lots of toilet paper. But the Australian government (who are fucking morons) are calling everyone home as they’re planning to close borders for SIX to TWELVE MONTHS!!!!!!!! That’s fucking insane, and considering that the cases in Australia keep rising and yet they still haven’t closed schools, bars, nightclubs, cafes etc, it’s just… baffling. 
> 
> However, I don’t have the money to stay out of home for months and months, so I dutifully booked a flight home (and FYI, I have no actual home to go to; I’ve been living on the road for the last few years) and arranged solo accommodation to self-isolate after the flight. You know, to be smart and responsible. 
> 
> HOWEVER, as of midnight last night, the airline sent me an email saying “We’re making changes to your flight. Please wait for an update” so god only knows what is going to happen now. 
> 
> So yeah. Things are stressful. We’re all going through hard times, and so now that I’m a few beers in and feeling… fun-tipsy as opposed to breakdown-drunk for the first time in days, so I figured that I may well just post this. 
> 
> For those reading [The Red Divide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22256308), I am putting that on hold for the time being. While it is prewritten, it’s not pre-edited and I’ve been doing that editing myself. So, it takes a good two to three hours to go over each chapter before posting and I really just don’t have the attention span for that right now. Also. The whole virus sickness part of that fic is a little trigger happy right now, so it’s going to go on a small pause. 
> 
> This fic, on the other hand, will likely get bumped up to two chapters a week. Thank me! Lol.

**Part III**

*****

Steve had never been to London. 

As a boy, Steve had dreamed of visiting the famous city. He’d been lost in ideas of Oliver Twist and The Artful Dodger; boy thieves leading remarkably macabre lives, or Pip the orphan chasing his hopes and dreams in the smog of the industrial revolution. Jack the Ripper’s murderous crimes painted a dark world of depravity and horror in a strangely romantic light. Sherlock Holmes; Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde; H.G. Wells and his stories of time machines. _Shakespeare_! For a kid raised on hard knocks in Brooklyn, London had seemed like such a magical, far off place. A city full of opportunities and stories of people just like Steve striving to make their mark on the world.

Later, as his understanding of the world grew, Steve had the stories his ageing neighbour told. Of victory-red lipstick and the thrill of shipping into London for a furlough. Then, the fear of leaving it in a rattling plane on D-Day. 

As an adult, Steve was a realist, and his arrival in Heathrow was less awe-inspiring as it was intimidating. He’d been issued with diplomat papers, granting him a waiver at immigration and customs and, from there it had been a sea of suits stuffed with shoulder pads. Steve had never felt more out of place in his life. He was used to dealing with his height, and the bulk of his physical appearance, but in his threadbare jeans and khaki tee, he looked every bit the American expat that he was. 

He followed the suits into nondescript black cars, and as the openness of the airport stretched away behind him, Steve’s only view of London came through the tinted window. The agents in the car didn’t pander to his wanderlust; there were no history lessons or remarks on famous monuments. Steve was left to stare open-mouthed until the car took them underground. 

After that, he could have been back in DC for all he knew. Carparks looked the same all around the world, as did elevators with key card access. His hotel suite was functional and modern and, as he quickly discovered, in the same government building serving as the base of operations. 

Food was catered and delivered to his door, and while his airport escort had told him to call reception if he required anything, it quickly became apparent that the offer didn’t cover sightseeing tours. 

Not that he had time for any of that anyway. 

Meetings and briefings; eat; try to sleep; drink; repeat. Jet lag gnawed at his concentration and zapped his energy, but apparently time wasn’t a luxury that Steve was allowed. 

In the early hours of the morning when his mind was alive and his palms sweaty with anticipation, Steve made use of the facilities. He practised his Romanian in the bathroom with the shower running, before tucking the dictionary he’d had Sam buy away in the zipper of his suitcase. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he didn’t think he should let anyone see or hear him, and in the world of intelligence he’d stumbled into, he had no clue who might be listening or when. Steve was lost somewhere between civilian and officer, his clearance based on need-to-know facts and information, but even he knew that the world was becoming sneakier. Especially when it came to dealing with the Soviets. 

On the second day since touch down, he was introduced to the team that would be posing as his entourage. 

It was as bad. 

The team was as strange and as painfully obvious as Steve had imagined. Even with all their desirable skills and knowledge, Steve couldn’t understand how the hell they were meant to make it deep into the U.S.S.R. without causing suspicion and alarm. Or, worse still, being assigned a Soviet escort to document their every conversation and move.

Nothing said American Jarhead like Brock Rumlow, or English Intelligence like Peggy Carter with her red lips and clipped tone that matched the sound of her heels. Dr Banner was a little more discerning and believable as a scholarly type, though his meek temperament and skittish behaviour suggested that he wouldn’t take well to being behind hostile lines. He was, after all, their plausible cover. The one who could bore anyone to death with science babble and deflect questions aimed at any of the less knowledgeable of the team. 

And the others were just as bad; soldiers looking trigger happy and worshipping Rumlow or translators who clearly belonged behind a desk cracking coded messages, not out on the field. 

Then there was Steve. While he was, in fact, a scholar and there for his level of expertise, he couldn’t let himself off the hook either. One look at him and it was clear what he was. American and military. Capable, trained and deadly.

He stuck out like a sore thumb. 

Now Steve didn’t claim to be Diplomatic grade intelligent, but basic smarts suggested that this was doomed from the start. There were eight of them in total, including Steve, and while Steve fully understood that the majority of people in the room had decades of combined field experience, he was still struggling to see how this was going to work. 

*****

“I think we should go through Romania,” Steve interjected. The words had come out before he really weighed up his decision, but saying them out loud lifted a huge weight off his chest. 

It was just a shame that another, heavier one settled in as he realised that he’d officially kicked his own shoddily thought out plan into action.

The room paused. Maybe they hadn’t been expecting him to talk. He was there to play a part, be silent and then provide the academic insight to the project should they make any discoveries. Banner was the science-nerd scapegoat, and Steve was there should they need someone to start referencing obscure Slavic myths to further their search. He wasn’t there to be making demands or go changing their plans.

“Professor,” Agent Carter took the situation in hand after looks were exchanged between the soldiers. “Given the severity of the mission and the timeline-”

“I have a contact there who could provide valuable information,” Steve hastily added. He wasn’t good at lying, but in this case, it came easily. After all, it wasn’t _really_ a lie. Barnes was rumoured to be in Bucharest and while he’d rightly have no information on the artefact, he would become a contact if Steve could find him. 

Steve also didn’t need it to be smooth and suave. After all, the last thing he wanted was to come across like he'd practised this speech in his bathroom mirror. Steve was in a room of trained liars and sleuths and he had never had a poker face. Maintain eye contact, never look left, relax his jaw and still hand against the desk casually; that was all he really knew about the finer parts of lying. That, and that it was always better to keep things as grounded in reality and truth as possible. 

It had to be real and spur of the moment and convincing enough to win the mishmash collective over.

“How do _you_ have a contact in Romania?” one of the translators asked. Steve noticed the slight to his voice; the hint of an insult and he filed that away for later. If Steve was a betting man, he guessed that the translator had as much dislike for military jarheads as Steve did, only the man was lumping Steve in with the rest of them. 

That was alright. He could use that to his advantage. 

“Old war buddy of my fathers,” Steve carried on the lie. “Lost a limb back in ’45 and turned to the life of a scholar. Haven’t seen in him years, but he specializes in Neolithic history and religion.” It was solid. Not too good to be true and yet Steve considered it enough of a hook to get the rest of the team involved.

“If anyone’s going to be able to crack this open and tell us the best location options, it’ll be him,” Steve finished.

Steve glanced around the room, trying to ask as casual as he possibly could. Rumlow was too busy chatting to the guy next to him – Steve thought his name was Rollins, but he couldn’t be sure – and the translator looked like he’d zoned out the moment Steve had spoken to him. Good. The less they thought about the lie, and less attention they gave to the plan, the better this would go. 

Only Peggy looked like she’d really been paying attention, and it was with a frown and a purse of red lips that she started to shake her head.

“The Socialist Republic of Romania is different.” Steve hadn’t expected Bruce to speak up, especially not in defence of his harebrained plan, but the older man was a heaven-sent. “Just as much under the curtain as they are out of it. It could be a good entry point.” His hand was at his mouth, his brows furrowed as he thought out loud and paced, championing Steve’s idea in a way that Steve never would have been able to. Sure, he’d done his research, but he wasn’t an information superhero. There was only so much his brain could retain and recall, especially given how quickly everything had come about. 

“That’s all well and good,” Peggy rationalized, “but we have no reason to enter the Romanian Republic.” 

“I hear gypsy chicks are hot,” Rumlow offered and Steve was glad to see he wasn’t the only one rolling his eyes. Peggy looked exasperated while Bruce made a half-assed attempt to correct the assumption. “That’s a reason, right?”

“I don’t think that’s how they-” Whatever he was trying to say about the racial slur was cut short by Rumlow high fiving the guy next to him as they both jeered.

“And it’s for that reason I think I should go alone.” Steve may not have been some an international spy, but he sure as hell knew when to use an unexpected situation to his advantage. 

“I’m afraid that’s even less possible.” Peggy shot him down immediately. Steve would have been stupid if he’d expected Peggy to react any other way. 

“Not completely alone, of course,” Steve reasoned. “I go in with a cover story. Something believably shady. Deflect the questions and keep my real reason – all of them – quiet.” Steve’s confidence was growing the more he went on. “I can gather what information I can, while the rest of you come in a day or two later and look for a way over the border.”

“I don’t like the idea of you going alone.” 

Part of Steve really wanted to believe that Peggy said that for personal reasons even though he knew that not to be possible. There was something about her that called to him in a way that no woman had in years. It was the way she held herself; the power and authority that matched her red lips so well. She didn’t hide the fact that she was intelligent – Steve had her easily pinned for the smartest person in the room – nor did she downplay her physical appeal. Add in a dry sense of humour and Peggy Carter completely embodied everything that Steve found attractive in a person. Well. Everything but gender. 

“If I get in too deep, then you come in and ‘extradite’ me for treason.” He offered. It was, as far as compromises and backup plans went, a pretty damn good one. “Give me a day to get there and a day to spend eyeballs deep in books, and then you can come in under the guise of diplomatic urgency. We leave, with more information than we have now, and we regroup and approach the Soviet Union in the way originally planned.” 

Peggy was thinking it over, so Steve cast his eyes around the room. He didn’t want to seem too eager as he was waiting for her to think it over. Rumlow and his little posse didn’t seem to be paying attention anymore; the wiry computer guy was too busy reading over the initial briefing files to have anything to say. It was only Dr. Banner who seemed to be keeping up. 

“It would make sense,” the scientist said. If they all made it out of this alive, Steve was going to buy Bruce a beer. “Romania gained its independence by selling stolen American secrets to the Russians anyway. Play our cards right and we could exploit that. A perfect cover hidden under the guise of espionage.”

“Misdirection.” 

Thanks to Banner, everything was starting to fall into place. “I hide the fact that I’m looking for information while acting the part of a shady spy seeking to trade information that I don’t have.” Steve nodded, trying to coax Peggy into seeing the wisdom behind the words. “By the time anyone tries to make contact with me, or I arouse suspicion, you’ll already be there to take me home.” 

Of course, only Steve knew about Barnes, just as only he knew that there was no university contact of his fathers’. He would use the time in Bucharest to hunt down Barnes and convince him to help. And the best way to do that was to prove to Barnes that someone else knew he was alive and was looking for him, and that the safest place Barnes could be was back home. Back in America.

Of course, there was the issue that Steve was in no position to go handing out free tickets home. He was sure that once he had the staff of Chernobog in his hands all thanks to the abandoned American soldier, then no one – not Peggy, not Coulson or even the damn President – would leave Barnes out to rot a second time. That wasn’t even considering the wealth of knowledge that Barnes would have after his exile in the Soviet Union and the Eastern Block. 

“A day,” Peggy finally acquiesced.

“Two days,” Steve countered. “It’s a big city and I’ll have a lot of reading to do. I’ll be locked away out of sight for the most part. Very minimal risk.” 

“Fine,” Peggy sighed. “Forty-eight hours and we’ll be behind you.” Red lips pursed together as her eyes trailed up Steve’s body. “Don’t get yourself killed.” 

“Yes, mam,” Steve grinned. 

*****

Mission Report: 22nd December 1981

1530 hours

**Vienna International Centre**

48°14′05″N 16°25′01″E

Vienna, Austria

File: 6108’46N

Subject: Captain Steven Grant Rogers

*****

  
  


“So, this,” agent Sitwell interrupted Steve’s recount, “is where you went AWOL.” It wasn’t a question. 

Steve took a moment to consider the statement, his eyes flicking over the agent in front of him and the still empty notebook. 

“Technically,” Steve reasoned, “it wasn’t a military operation, so I resent that term.” Steve took pleasure in the way Sitwell squirmed slightly. “But yes. This is where things went off-book.” 

The plan had been simple enough, though it had taken the better part of a week to nail it down and drag the pieces into place. 

Steve was going into the Socialist Republic of Romania under the guise of an ex-military officer with a secret or two to sell. British Intelligence had even coughed up a dossier of believable though ultimately flawed nuclear-powered missile designs. He’d go in, act the right way, and attract the right, though minimal, attention to keep things plausible. 

That was where things had become tricky and where endless hours had been spent hashing out the details. 

MI6 had created a cover story for him, and a fake passport and history. Steve needed to be believable as an intelligent man with a bumbling sense of street smarts that would draw attention to himself. He needed to be seen as a high-ticket case all while ensuring that he was more than just a ghost filtering information through the grapevine and into the Black Market. He needed to be approachable and desirable as a new player on the scene, all while somehow not coming across as an obvious spy. 

Having a turbulent record was the only way he was going to get across a closed border. Of course, he needed to be on his toes enough not to be taken by the _Securitate_ , the Romanian Secret Police, and still be able to move around the city as a foreigner in order to meet with his contact. 

A contact that, Steve knew deep down, didn’t exist. So, on top of all of that, Steve needed to remember his actual goal.

Find Barnes. Play the part that Peggy had laid out for him while locating a rogue double agent and, after that, hopefully, give multiple intelligence agencies the slip and smuggle himself into one of the coldest, most uninhabitable places on earth. 

Peggy had drilled him over the political situation of the country, of the citizen's mistrust for foreigners and the constant paranoia that their Dictator instilled. Nicolae Ceaușescu was a piece of work – right up there with the Russians, as far as Steve was concerned – but according to the Intelligence Operatives, he was the lesser of two evils. He was more inclined to talk to outsiders and trade valuable information. It left Steve wondering how much of his cover was fabricated and how much was based on tailored and approved tactics.

Citizens wouldn’t talk to him, he was told, so there was no point trying to make small talk. Any average person found talking to a foreigner – especially an American – risked being taken by the _Securitate,_ and for a lot of these people, that was a fate akin to death. Or one that could lead to death. As different as the Socialist Republic of Romania claimed to be, it was still a country ruled by fear and informing on one’s neighbours was a lucrative trade. 

Those that openly approached him weren’t to be trusted. They’d be _Securitate_ agents, Russian spies or, even worse, American moles looking to expose him for a ticket back home or trade him to the government for a position of power deeper in the Soviet Union. 

Steve had listened to it all with a grain of salt. Of course, he needed to be aware of the world he was walking into and the information would be invaluable, but he had to crosscheck Peggy’s plans with his own. 

“And this is where this,” Sitwell paused as he shifted his files around. Opening his chosen one up, Steve saw a flash of an image that he knew all too well. “Sergeant James Barnes comes into the story,” the agent concluded. 

“In a roundabout way, yes,” Steve agreed. 

“Tell me more about Barnes.” 

Steve paused long enough to fill his glass of water and take a deep drink. While he’d already laid out the strange files and dead drop clues that would lead to Barnes’ location, he knew he still had to choose his words carefully. After all that had happened, Steve didn’t want to drag Barnes’ name through the mud. He didn’t deserve that. 

“At the time, I knew as much as I’ve told you,” Steve started. “That he was trained by the American military and worked as their spy in the Soviet Union.”

“And that he was executed some years prior,” Sitwell finished. 

“Apparently.” Sipping his water, Steve moved the glass back to the ring of condensation already on the table, smearing the clear line as he went. “As I said,” he recapitulated, “someone was leaving me snippets of evidence that suggested Barnes was very much alive.” 

“What I don’t understand,” Sitwell mused, “was why you lied to the government in order to chase after someone who may, or may not, have been alive and willing to help.”

There was no denying that it was a valid question. God only knew that Steve had asked himself the same thing repeatedly during his flight to Bucharest. Part of him was sure this was going to be a death sentence. That he was doing something so unbelievably stupid that it would lead to his ultimate demise. Another voice said that Sam was right and that Steve was being a fool for a pretty smile and a heart-wrenching sob story. 

“When this all began.” There was no way that Steve could keep the condescension from his voice. “An agent just like you sat across from me in a room just like this, and he stressed the importance of finding this object – provided that it existed – at all costs. 

“Barnes was that cost,” Steve concluded with a defiant raise of his chin. “I don’t know if the same person left Chernobog’s file and Barnes’ details with me, but it’s clear that they were somehow linked. That finding Barnes was important to this mission.”

Sitwell was struggling for words; Steve could see it in his eyes. He didn’t like being challenged. He struck Steve as the sort of man who was all bark and no bite, and even despite their current situation, he seemed intimated by Steve. 

“So why the deception?” Sitwell finally asked. “Why didn’t you tell Agent Carter what you were planning? You left an entire joint-government task force in the dark.” 

“Do you really think someone like Barnes was going to let himself be found, and then welcome a chat with a bunch of spies working for the very government that left him to die?” Steve had to watch himself. As much as it was fun putting Sitwell in his place, he had to remain impartial. There was too much at risk to let emotions cloud his words. 

“Barnes met his end at-”

“At the hands of the Soviets,” Steve interrupted, “while working undercover for the Americans. It was a complex situation and one best approached without the fanfare of a military escort or the clipped tones of an MI6 agent.”

The large wheels of the Revox B77 tape whirred as they snagged at the end. Eyes flicking to the tape recorder, Steve waited as Sitwell hooked up the third set of cartridges and hit the record button.

“Carry on,” Sitwell prompted. “Why don’t you tell me how you found Barnes.” 

“Well,” Steve said. The chair creaked under him as he shifted to lean back. “I’ve already mentioned the documents and photos, and, surprisingly, everything went according to plan.” Looking Sitwell over, Steve would have had to be blind to miss the eager gleam in the man’s eyes. “So let’s jump straight to the point, shall we?”

*****

**Part IV Preview:**

Tilting his head backward, Steve looked up at the stranger calmly. He was a giant of a thing with a nose too often broken and a missing front tooth that allowed his lip to be sucked into the cavern of his mouth as he spoke. He stood a good head and a bit taller than Steve, and his shoulders were as broad as Steve’s legs were long. 

A Russian bear if Steve ever saw one. 

“Ameri _cunt_.” Steve grimaced when the man spoke, not because of the derogatory bastardisation of his ethnicity, but because of the other’s breath. It smelt like he’d eaten someone and left parts of their flesh rotting in his back molars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO FUCKING EXCITED FOR NEXT CHAPTER. LIKE. YOU GUYS HAVE **NO CLUE** HOW EXCITING THIS IS. OR WHAT’S COMING. **JUST OMFG**!!!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who came out of the woodworks and commented last chapter!!! That meant a lot, and I’d honestly really appreciate it again. A lot of people forget this, but fanfic writing takes time, especially a story of this magnitude. It’s literally taken MONTHS of my life, stretched out over YEARS, and I really hope that it’s working as a good distraction for those of you in lockdown and stuck at home. 
> 
> In return, comments and kudos are wonderful and will be a welcomed distraction for me during this time. 
> 
> So tell me what you think; what do you think will happen? Have you listened to the [soundtrack](http://minkawrites.com/)? What do you think is the theme song of their meeting? How do you think the meeting will go?? Where do you think it will happen? What will happen? Is it love at first sight?! 
> 
> Come on! Fangirl/fanboy with me!!!!


	5. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life update: so… I’m stuck in Athens. Flights cancelled, rebooked, cancelled etc etc etc. And so now it looks like I’m here for… who knows how long. I’m ok. I have a place to stay for the next month and I’m just going to have to play it by ear and see how things go. I mean, sometimes I have a little panic attack over everything and then other times I’m blasé about it all. 
> 
> Que será será, really. 
> 
> Anyway. This is **THE** chapter. It’s a long one! Grab a drink. Get comfortable. Prepare for the identity porn. Play [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qKOv3VBJcc)  
> song. Enjoy!

**Part IV**

*****

Steve wasn’t sure what hit him first; the smell or the noise. 

The music was probably the most surprising. Steve had been prepared for loud, and he’d expected energised – it seemed to be an illegal boxing club run by a shady smuggler after all – but what he hadn’t expected was the psychedelic tones of a swamp rock song from home. It was a few years old now, but he’d still know the beat anywhere. 

_“Saturday night I was downtown. Working for the FBI. Sitting in a nest of bad men, whiskey bottles piling high…”_

The Hollies’ hit made the walls shudder and painted an eerie concept of life imitating art. For a moment, Steve could forget that he was in the middle of a Communist-controlled country skirting the iron curtain. 

The music alone roared defiance against the regime, as did the eclectic array of propaganda posters pinned to the wall. Stalin featured in a lot of them, his head crowned with horns and the anarchist A tearing his body apart. The Soviet Robot was the other favourite to be defaced, words that Steve couldn’t understand were written all over it while someone had given it upgrades, drawing bombs on its arms and legs. _It can happen here; so let_ _’s nuke_ _’m first_ was sprawled in crimson red along the back wall, the paint so thick when applied it dripped like blood. 

An already unflattering poster of Nicolae Ceaușescu had been defaced and tacked to a wall used for darts.

The effect was brutally honest and bold as brass. All it would take was a _Securitate_ agent to stroll through the doors, and everyone in this room would be up for the firing squad. Mix the décor with the tables piled high with bottles of Western contraband and ammunition, and Steve felt like he’d walked into the base of a guerrilla stronghold. 

It was a room full of misfits and outcasts; the dregs of society and men running from more than just the law. The Frenchman at his back made about as much sense as the guy speaking German off to his right. The anti-communist posters contradicted the very name of the man Steve was there to meet; _Vanya Morozov_ couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than Russian. 

Or, as Steve suspected, a Romanian refugee with an American past pretending to be a Russian immigrant in a Romanian stronghold. 

Steve couldn’t imagine how anyone would be able to keep track of so many lies and facades, let alone be able to live them convincingly. 

Steve had heard rumours of the resistance movement in Romania, of a group of everyday men and women who’d fought the sweep of Communism. Bruce had talked his ear off about it back in London, after Steve had mentioned Romania. Intel was sketchy at best, but some said that they’d made a stand in the Carpathian Mountains. _Hajduk_ was the official word for them though no CIA intelligence had been able to solidify the rumours with any truth. 

If they did exist – or had even survived the oppressive regime – then Steve was sure that he’d walked into a faction of the movement, right here in Bucharest and, if his mysterious leads were to be believed, led by the very man he was looking to find.

The Frenchman behind him nudged Steve none too gently in the back, and Steve remembered to walk. No matter who these people were, they probably didn’t approve of being gawked at. 

Steve moved further into the pit-like room, his eyes scanning over as much as he could. Most of the people hardly spared him a glance; their attention was focused elsewhere. Steve followed the lines of sight and open-mouthed awe to narrow in on a raised boxing ring in the middle of the room. 

“ _…Just a five nine; beautiful, tall. With just one look I was a bad mess…_ ” the music blasted on. 

Steve would have recognised Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes anywhere. 

Even in the midst of a fight, there was something captivating about him. He moved like water, fluid and graceful with the deadliness of a feline predator. Dark, wavy hair whipped around his shoulders, granting Steve flashes of bright eyes rimmed in black warpaint. He’d only ever seen three photos of him, four if he counted the bogus execution shot, yet Steve would know those eyes anywhere. They’d been the ones to smile at him over a smoking cigarette from a young, impressionable face. Those same eyes had threatened violence from a body decked out in Kevlar and leather, just as they’d flashed defiance and an unbreakable will while shrunk in a Soviet prison. 

Now they were dangerous and calculating and highlighted like a warrior painted for war. 

Barnes twisted out of the way, pivoted on one foot and sent the other straight into the throat of the other boxer. His opponent stumbled back with a gasp, his back hitting the ropes and his arms struggling to support his weight. He’d no doubt bitten his tongue, given the splash of blood that flew from between his lips. 

The move was hardly something that complied with Steve’s ideas on boxing, let alone friendly sparring, but the crowd seemed to love it. They roared their bloodthirsty pleasure and shouted clear encouragements in a blend of languages that sounded messy to Steve’s ears. 

Barnes stood to full height and flicked his hair out of his face; then he beckoned the man forward with a curl of the fingers, his smile predatory. 

“Vanya,” the Frenchman behind him exclaimed, drawing Steve’s attention away. He did it with another prod to Steve’s back, forcing him forward another step, right into the face of a man that towered even over Steve. 

Tilting his head backward, Steve looked up at the stranger calmly. He was a giant of a thing with a nose too often broken and a missing front tooth that allowed his lip to be sucked into the cavern of his mouth as he spoke. He stood a good head and a bit taller than Steve, and his shoulders were as broad as Steve’s legs were long. 

A Russian bear if Steve ever saw one. 

“Ameri _cunt_.” Steve grimaced when the man spoke, not because of the derogatory bastardisation of the term, but because of the other’s breath. It smelt like he’d eaten someone and left parts of their flesh rotting in his back molars. 

His wince was clearly noticed, and the Frenchmen chuckled as he moved around Steve, boxing him in. Steve guessed it was mean to be menacing. 

“I’ve come to speak to Vanya Morozov. The _Lup Rosu_.” He said the Romania words with an accent that had the men around him sneering to themselves, but Steve knew they got the point. He was here to the see the Red Wolf; the one who people shivered over when the name was whispered in the dark. A man notorious not just in Bucharest, but in all of Romania. 

Idly he wondered how many names and nom-de-plumes a man really needed. James Buchanan Barnes seemed to be collecting them like Steve had medals; The Winter Soldier, Lup Rosu, Vanya Morozov; _Bucky_. And they were just the ones that Steve knew about. There had to be more than those Steve had come across, and probably a whole slew of dead aliases and names that would never be linked to a corpse. 

The Russian bear barked out a laugh that rumbled in his chest, the force of it so great that Steve was sure he could feel it in his feet. 

Their exchange caused the room to fall silent. Someone even muted the music, which made the two men in the ring pause their bloody battle. Steve was aware of it only because Barnes was his target. Said target had draped himself over the ropes, his forearms holding him up as his wrists crossed lazily in front of himself. He slumped comfortably despite the man he’d just been beating into a bloody pulp remaining behind him, one hip cocked out casually. 

Steve tried not to stare and instead turned his attention back to the Russian. 

Back to the imposter. 

It was a fact that baffled Steve, and he couldn’t help but wonder. Did this man play the part due to fear – because he was instructed to – or was it out of respect and admiration? Was it born from force or the need and want to protect Barnes – _Vanya_ – from whatever threat came through that door?

Steve had inspired men in his time. He’d lead them, and they’d followed him into battle, and into slaughter because they believed the words he said. But he’d never asked any of them to stand for him, to risk everything under the guise of using his name. 

Maybe the truth was in the way that Barnes leant so casually against those ropes. Either he ruled with an iron fist that wielded fear, or he led with a sense of conviction that inspired devotion and sacrifice. 

Steve knew that he was putting too much faith in someone he didn’t know, but he was sure it was the latter. 

It made him almost hesitant to shake things up. 

Almost. 

“But you’re not in charge here.” He finally said to the Russian. 

As expected, the giant took offence. He puffed his chest and stood to his full height, adding more inches on Steve’s own. There was a roll of the shoulders, a pop of the neck and the sound of knuckles cracking in the cradle of his fist. 

Steve made no effort to square away against him. He wasn’t about to get any taller and he sure as hell wasn’t about to start looking any more intimidating to these thugs. Nothing would help him but remaining cool, calm and collected while sticking to his accusations. 

Maybe, somewhere in the back of his mind, he also figured that Barnes wouldn’t let these people kill him. Barnes was an American, after all. Or at least… halfway through that thought, Steve decided not to put too much weight on that faith. Barnes had hardly spent three years on American soil before being hung out to dry once his usefulness had come to an end. 

The more Steve thought about it, the more he was starting to regret ditching his government-appointed entourage. 

Still, there was no backing down now. Not when Steve had come so far and not when he was staring up at a man-eating giant. 

“I’m here to speak to your boss. To _Vanya_ ,” Steve said loudly and clearly. He dared to turn his side to the giant so he could better see the crowd. Steve’s eyes skimmed the room, coming to finally rest on Barnes. 

“I want to speak to _him_.” He inclined his head towards Barnes and offered the other a challenging grin as he called him out. 

The room had already been silent, but now it was still as the grave. No one seemed to even breathe as Steve stared Barnes down; Barnes returned the gaze in kind, his head cocked to the side, and his dark brows raised in challenge. 

Lost in the moment, Steve couldn’t tell what happened first; Barnes lifting his jaw minutely, or the press of the Russian at his back, stepping in dangerously close. Hands closed around both of his shoulders, sausage thick fingers squeezing painfully against his joints and tugging. Steve was terrified that the Russian was going to lift him clean off the ground. 

Gritting his teeth, Steve focused on his breathing. In. Out. Calm. Don’t retaliate. These people were like their namesakes – wolves – and Steve had the intelligence to know not to provoke them. If he struggled or fought, they’d tear him apart. 

The Russian squeezed, and Steve clenched his jaw and kept his eyes locked on Barnes. For his part, Barnes never once squirmed; he simply looked back, torn between interested and plain old bored.

Seconds ticked by, and the pressure grew. Steve could feel pain in his teeth as he clenched them together. 

Finally, the stalemate broke. 

Barnes said something in a language that Steve didn’t understand. Russian, Romanian? They were all the same to his untrained ear. Still, the meaning was clear enough, especially given that the pressure alleviated almost instantly. 

The game was up. Barnes had told the man to stop, and the Russian had responded within seconds. 

Dark eyes flashed as Barnes grabbed the ropes. He slipped between them effortlessly, sliding down from the raised ring to land gracefully on his feet. It was like watching a cat and horrifically enough, Steve’s mind flashed back to the deadliest of predators. Those that his men had feared even more than the Viet Cong. The tigers in the jungle. 

The crowd parted for Barnes as he walked, his hands moving to slow clap Steve’s brash move. Steve wasn’t too sure if he should feel proud or insulted. Or maybe scared. There was a darkness in Barnes’ eyes that Steve didn’t remember from the photos. There was no doubt that they were the same person or that Steve was looking at the older version of the man sitting on the jeep with a smoke in his mouth. But those eyes wanted to suggest otherwise. They spoke of tough lessons and violent truths. Ruthlessness and the will to kill. 

It was while watching the man as he approached that Steve started to realise something important. This wasn’t Barnes. It wasn’t the young soldier dreaming of an American life. It wasn’t the man trained to spy and report, who believed that he’d earn his place through service and be able to provide for his family. 

This was Vanya. The collective result of a hard life mixed with a cunning mind. A person created from the fractured remains of countless other personalities, long since dead. 

Again, Steve found himself questioning whether it would work. This man – this _Vanya_ – didn’t want to go home. He _was_ home. America was a far-off place that he’d forgotten about. His asylum-seeking family; god only knew what happened to them, and chances were that Vanya had come to terms with that. He wasn’t about to jump at the opportunity for Steve to clear his name and bring him back to a place he’d never known. 

Steve was starting to realise just how stupid his plan was. 

“The American has _such_ smarts,” Vanya said in broken English before turning his attention to the crowd. It was the first time that Steve heard his voice and strange as it was, Steve was sure he’d always remember it. The deep tones filled with deadly malice; the words dripped like thick honey from his lips. Vanya’s voice was slurred with a heavy accent, the English words clumsy on his tongue, which Steve found interesting to note. Either Barnes’ proficiency with the language had been glorified in his file, or he’d forgotten the lilt thanks to prolonged disuse. 

That, or even now, he was playing the crowd like a puppet master, adding yet another layer to his complicated alias.

If Steve was a betting man, then he’d go with option three. A polyglot like Barnes didn’t just forget how to pronounce his words or form his sentences. 

Whatever Vanya said next slipped off his tongue with ease and caused the crowd to roar with laughter. Some stomped their feet while others banged their fists on tables and walls. It was a strange battle drum, and Vanya smiled wildly at the sound. Voices filled the room, and Vanya wiggled his fingers, inviting more as he stalked ever closer. The language reminded Steve of Latin, or Italian and Spanish afflicted with a hint of harshness common to the Russians. Musical and romantic even in harsh jest.

“They say you less stupid than your looks,” he translated. A shiver ran up Steve’s spine as the sound cut out the moment Vanya opened his mouth. The men in the room hung on his every word, waiting for more and listening to the English exchange that they probably didn’t understand. 

It was enough to have Steve’s blood run cold. Vanya _owned_ the room; they breathed when he said and spoke when he said. Steve figured they’d also fight and kill when Vanya said as well. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“No. We don’t much like the Americans.” The words continued to roll off Vanya’s tongue even as his dark-lined eyes swept Steve up and down. Something in that gaze made Steve shudder. It was an action that Vanya clearly saw, judging by the snide little twist at the corners of his mouth. 

“Pretty sure you don’t like Russians either,” Steve shot back while taking a step closer. “Funny that you use a Russian name now.” That got the attention of the room. Heads turned, arms lifted, and Steve had the feeling that secretive weapons were being drawn. Steve wasn’t too sure if it was just at the mention of the Russians or if it was to protect their leader as he and Steve steadily moved closer together. 

Vanya removed suspicion by raising his hand, halting the room, and Steve was faced with the full force of Vanya’s power over these men. 

“You are either much stupid,” Vanya accused. He took a step closer, and Steve wondered if it was as much of a power play as he gave it credit for. Who could get the closest; who would move again? Who would shy back? It was a taunt, and a dare and a challenge all rolled into the simple process of taking a step. “Or you like play dangerous games. This side of curtain, all is same.”

Vanya was like a bloodhound, or a shark circling in and standing there in the black painted dive of a bar, Steve felt like he was bleeding. He was an open target; alone, lost and well out of his depth. 

Looking at Vanya, at the man he’d tracked halfway across the world, Steve finally knew why SHIELD had insisted on a government trained entourage.

There was a deep sense of intelligence in the other man’s eyes and clear defiance in the set of his jaw. Especially as he paced so casually around Steve and looked him over, seemingly unbothered by the difference in height, slight as it was, nor the differences in their physique. Steve felt like the man could read him like a book; see right into his soul and pluck out the very seeds of his being. And then he’d burn it; hold it in his hand and let his fierce fire turn Steve’s soul to ash. 

Steve felt innocent. Like a child just discovering the world for the first time and no amount of war-blood on his hands was going to age him up. His life had been sheltered. It was the product of the American dream and the steps taken to protect it. Follow orders, command respect; that was all taught and bartered under the guise of a uniform and a set number of stripes. Skills learnt and honed and now, in this situation, rendered utterly useless. 

Vanya was just the opposite. He was worldly and wise; it showed in everything, from the way he placed his foot on the ground to the way he smirked as he eyed the golden cowlick of Steve’s hair. The straightness of his back spoke of perseverance and training, of mental battles hard-won and physical capability trained to match a deadly mind. 

Steve was ideals and dreams, and Vanya was bloody knuckles and a predator on the prowl. 

Vanya must have picked up on Steve’s scrutiny. His head tilted to the side as his steely blue eyes flicked from Steve to the crowd. It was all the club’s patrons needed; silent permission to speak and woot. Shouts and laughter filled the room, fists rapped against tables as wolf whistles made Vanya laugh out loud. The sound like was like glass shattered by a bullet. 

“They say American boy has crush.” It wasn’t the explanation that Steve had been expecting, but the notion seemed to entertain Vanya to no ends. 

Vanya was everything that Steve would typically fall for. Dark, capable and dangerously attractive. He was also completely out of Steve’s reach. 

“They want to see gold American bleed!” Vanya continued with a smirk. He pressed a hand to his heart and damn him, but Vanya made an excellent impression of being coy and shy. “Judge worth for me.”

While Steve never could have planned this, he was quick enough to catch the opportunity for what it was. 

“If I get in that ring, I buy my right to speak with you.” It wasn’t a question. “ _Privately_.” Steve knew he wasn’t in the situation to make demands, but he guessed that Vanya would enjoy the brashness of it all. He seemed to be the kind to embrace a good challenge. 

Steve was right, and Vanya rewarded him with a dark smirk. 

“Get in ring; you die.” It was a pretty matter-of-fact statement, but the accent really hammered it home. The men around them whooped again, clearly piecing the conversation together with the way they looked towards the boxing ring, and Steve did the only thing he could do. He continued the gamble and placed all his cards on the table. 

“Not if I fight you.”

Vanya barked his response through a sinister laugh. “You think I not kill you?”

“I don’t think you’d kill an innocent man.”

That got Vanya’s attention. For just a moment – a split second – the snide cockiness drained from his features, exposing something different. Steve was probably kidding himself in believing that right then and there, Vanya looked just like James Barnes had while sitting on the jeep. Young and hopeful but already burdened with a shadow cast by the harshness of the world. 

Maybe he knew that he’d slipped or perhaps it was all part of his plan to get Steve to lower his guard. Either way, Vanya was two steps away, and then he was in Steve’s space, his body pressed against Steve’s own and his lips at Steve’s ear. 

Vanya’s hair tickled Steve’s collarbone. 

“What makes you so sure you’re innocent?” The accent was there, breathed right against Steve’s ear, but the words had slipped. The sentence too grammatically correct; too perfect. It showed that Vanya was a character. A persona made as a cover with the blurry grasp on English strategically formatted to match. 

Steve grinned and offered a small shrug as Vanya pulled away. 

“Then I guess you won’t have to talk to me after all.”

Vanya smirked before turning to his devotees and raising his hands. Steve couldn’t understand the words he said, but the jeers translated them for him. Vanya was paying him out, psyching the crowd up to cheer the glory of the foolish fight. 

“Big man believes self is tough,” Vanya tsked in the back of his throat, his head shaking from side to side. It made his hair move, and Steve took note of that. For tactical purposes, of course – the idea of Vanya getting it in his eyes held more merit than the simple fact that Steve found it attractive. 

“Big man can fight.” Broken as it was, Steve wasn’t sure if Vanya was making a joke or asking a question. Either way, the crowd went nuts. Fists banged on the top of tables and feet stomped the dirty ground like battle drums. 

And all the while, Vanya watched him, his right index finger hooked into a challenging curl as he walked back towards the ring. 

Steve was powerless. 

He followed. 

Steve watched as Vanya ducked his head under the ropes and all but sprung into the ring. It was clear that this was his domain; that he was used to climbing into the centre of the room with confidence and poise. 

Following suit, Steve did his best not to get tangled in the ropes or trip over his own feet. The division of grace and dexterity between them was clearly evident to the room even as Steve made a point of stretching out his neck and arms. 

Vanya was darkness and danger and secrets, temptation layered over the untouchable realness of a young man. He stood comfortably, his body lax and his stance open. They could have been friends talking for all the way that Vanya held himself. He didn’t jump into a boxer’s stance, didn’t lift his fists or ground himself with the balance of his legs. 

Maybe Steve was paranoid, but to him, that made Vanya even more dangerous. 

Steve was a moron. He had always suspected it, always thought that he was a little too contemplative and slow to act. Standing across from a spy in an underground boxing ring in the heart of Communist Romania really nailed that home. As did the fact that no matter how smart it would be to strike first, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d seen Vanya fight while walking in. Knew how fast he was; how deadly. Steve needed to get the upper hand, and quick, and striking before his opponent was the best possible way to do that. 

The more he looked at Vanya though, the more he saw Barnes. The boy on the jeep with the smiling lips and solemn eyes. The more he-

The thoughts were violently punched out the back of Steve’s brain as Vanya’s fist collided with his jaw. Pain exploded through his teeth and cheekbone, and his eyes instantly glossed with water. 

Steve coughed and tasted blood, his head reeling from the force of the blow. Vanya hit like a tonne of bricks, and then some. Steve was a big guy, and he’d had his fair share of fights in his day, but either he’d been lucky with his opponents, or Vanya wasn’t human or something. It seemed like a valid explanation which clearly demonstrated just how much Vanya’s opening blow had Steve’s head wheeling. 

The battle was on then, he guessed, and the roar of the crowd clearly supported his theory.

Blurry eyed and spitting blood, Steve righted himself and found his balance, his fists tightening as he planned his retaliation. 

Vanya was quicker. 

His right fist collided with Steve’s sternum, and Steve crumpled forward, straight into Vanya’s left elbow. It cracked against his collarbone. It was honestly amazing that bone didn’t snap under the force. 

Steve coughed and heaved, his face feeling hot with his defeat and sense of shame. 

In his defence, it had been a long time since he’d sparred with anyone other than Sam, and Sam, while good, wasn’t exactly the ideal candidate for Steve to really hone his skills. For them, it was all about keeping in shape and getting out some post-war frustration, not about incapacitating the other and actively looking to cause pain. 

Honestly, Steve wasn’t even entirely sure that Vanya understood the term _sparring_. He moved like he was poised and ready to kill. A snake ready to strike, or a Siberian tiger trained to tear skin from bones or rip open throats. If Steve had been a lesser man in stature, Vanya’s hits would have destroyed him. 

Letting muscle memory guide him, Steve shifted back and pushed himself into a defensive stance. He looked up just in time to see Vanya smile that evil smirk of his before moving again. Vanya jabbed, but this time Steve was ready. He parried it away and returned in kind, jabbing at Vanya’s head. His fist hit air as Vanya dropped his shoulder and upper body out of the way; Steve blocked the backward swing of Vanya’s elbow with both forearms before they parted again. 

Now that Steve had his rhythm going, it was easier. At first, he’d been far too hesitant to get started, the ideas and rules of the competition unknown. He still didn’t understand how this was meant to be a sparring match – any of those blows could have maimed or even killed – but with the force of Vanya’s punches ringing in his ears, Steve felt better about going on the offensive. 

So, when Vanya struck out again, his front kick flying through the air with perfect execution, Steve was ready. He let the blow hit home, but only so he could trap the leg there against his side. There was the briefest moment of shock reflected in Vanya’s eyes. Steve tried not to pay it attention, just as he attempted not to grimace as he drove the ball of his left hand straight into his opponent’s chest. It would have hurt, and Steve couldn’t help but feel bad as he pushed Vanya backwards by shoving his leg. 

Vanya stumbled across the mat, his feet backpedalling as he spluttered for air. The already silent room went still as Vanya spat a pink-tinged globe of spittle to the ground. 

If Steve had been naive enough to think that would put an end to the fight, then he would have been sorely disappointed. Vanya came back with a vengeance. It was like he breathed the pain in and used it to fuel his aggressive response. He was a smudge of black lined eyes and dark hair as he pounded Steve across the ring, and try as Steve might, he found those small details remarkably distracting. With Vanya’s fists, knees and legs flying so fast, it was all Steve could do to keep his arms up and his legs ready to block the offensive kicks with his thighs. 

Back and forth they went, one pressing forward while the other struggled to defend. For all points and purposes, they were evenly matched. It was only in little ways that one or the other was able to get the upper hand. Vanya clearly knew more fight styles than Steve. He pulled moves that Steve had never seen before; acts of dexterity that reminded Steve of the exotic fighting styles of the far east. His movements flowed like water, his stance and offensive front switching from right to left and right again sinuously. 

Steve had never seen anything like it, let alone tried to fight against it. Boxing was a pastime for Steve; a way to relieve the odd stress that came with civilian life after the military. After all, it wasn’t like he’d been punching his way through the jungles of ‘Nam. But for Vanya – for The Winter Soldier – hand to hand combat was clearly a way of life. A necessity in a dark alleyway in a country where firing a gun would only bring more danger. 

He was a phenomenal fighter, and Steve, as a realist, was starting to doubt his chances of winning. 

That was until Vanya let something slip. It was the tiniest of moments, and maybe if Steve hadn’t been paying such borderline creepy attention to every way Vanya moved, then he would have missed it completely. 

Steve caught Vanya’s right arm under his own, grabbed Vanya’s chest and rolled his body to the side, flipping Vanya off balance and down to the mat. 

Vanya hit the floor with all the force of someone who didn’t intend to stay there. It was remarkable, and if Steve wasn’t still gripping at his arm and trying to move with him, he was sure he would have been fascinated to the point of gawking. 

Vanya landed on his back, as Steve had expected, but then he just as gracefully rolled under his own trapped arm to his knees. He was standing again in a matter of moments, and while his right arm was still trapped in Steve’s grip, he was already swinging with his left. 

But that was his downfall. He’d walked right into Steve’s play, and instead of blocking the wild left hook, Steve moved oppositely, twisting and pivoting to the side. He used both arms to secure the soldier’s arm and ducked under it while using the momentum of Vanya’s wild hook to help keep control of the situation. From there, it was just a matter of locking himself down and keeping Vanya under control. 

With his right arm pinned painfully behind his back, and Steve hooking his throat with the crook of his left elbow, Vanya had nowhere to go. 

“Give up,” Steve hissed. He squeezed his arm tighter, choking Vanya with the crook of his elbow. “I don’t want to hurt you so just tap out, Bucky.” 

Steve wasn’t sure what he was expecting. He’d hoped that Vanya would see the intelligence in the suggestion, that he’d bite his pride and tap Steve’s arm for release. Steve would have done it too, would have let him go the moment Vanya admitted defeat. He meant what he said; beyond a sparring match, he didn’t want to hurt the other man. 

He should have expected that Vanya wouldn’t make it so easy. Still, when Vanya laughed out loud, the sound apparently carefree and not at all intimidated despite the choking attempt, Steve felt unease settle into the pit of his stomach. 

The crowd broke their silence, cheering before anything even happened. With irritating clarity, Steve knew he’d been played. Knew that this must have been a signature move or at least something that these men had seen before. He didn’t have Vanya caught; Vanya was there because he was toying with Steve like a cat did a mouse. He’d led Steve to this very point; let him see weaknesses that, in hindsight, Steve had exploited in a predictable, obvious fashion. 

When Vanya moved, he moved to kill. To incapacitate and maim and defuse the situation. Steve had never seen anything like it, let alone been on the receiving end of it. Vanya was fast. So fast that he was a blur of black and cold eyes and grim lips that left pain exploding in his wake. 

Steve felt it in his hand first. Vanya’s fingers were like liquid, slipping around Steve’s clenched right fist and tangling with Steve’s own. They pulled and squeezed, hitting all the right places that forced Steve’s muscles to contract against his will. Somehow Vanya had laced their fingers together in a parody of lovers holding hands. There was nothing intimate about it though, and before Steve could even breathe, Vanya had his fingers twisted back, his wrist locked and his arm immobilised as he all but danced out of Steve’s strangling grip. 

There was a startling moment when they were face to face. Steve’s right arm was trapped, held out wrist up and shoulder twisted, but other than that, it was almost a friendly look that Vanya fixed on him. 

That one second felt like it ticked on for eternity; Steve imagined what he could say to defuse the situation, to calm that fire in Vanya’s eyes. He’d call him Bucky again and watch him falter; tell him that he was there to help him, to bring him home and then catch him as a world of relief tugged him down. 

It would be sweet and memorable and maybe – just maybe if Steve was real lucky – Bucky would give him a smile. _That_ smile. The one that lit up the page of that file and burned into Steve’s mind. 

The one that had led him all the way here; convinced him to come. 

But life wasn’t like that, and they weren’t friends. Right now, Vanya looked at him like one would an enemy. And the arm lock Vanya had on him was starting to push and push and tighten; threatening to pop his shoulder out of its socket. Vanya was smiling, but it was sinister in its questioning; why wasn’t Steve struggling? That was what his eyes asked as his hand moved one-quarter of an inch closer to dislocating Steve’s shoulder. 

The moment shattered as Steve’s fight or flight instincts kicked in. His dominant arm was immobile, but that didn’t render him useless. He balled his left fist and struck out, aiming for Vanya’s solar plexus. His opponent swivelled his hips out of the way and actually let out a small laugh. The action pulled Steve’s arm again, and it was quickly becoming apparent that Vanya enjoyed toying with him. 

He attempted a knee at Vanya’s exposed side, but again, Vanya was expecting it. He blocked it with a rise of his thigh, catching Steve’s leg and knocking it aside. It further altered Steve’s balance, and at that moment, Steve knew there was nothing he could do. He’d walked right into Vanya’s play. 

Vanya did as well, and that smile was dark and wild as he moved. He stepped closer, then ducked under Steve’s trapped arm, dragging it behind him. 

Steve knew the move well; a backwards arm lock was an effective thing, though it could still be broken. Steve was already moving to do just as much when the world seemed to shift again. 

Vanya was always two steps ahead. Instead of the classic bang to the back of the head, or a kick to the ankles that was easy to avoid, or even the pull that would have Steve in a hold that would mirror how he’d restrained Vanya, Vanya did something Steve would never have imagined. 

He kept Steve’s arm pinned behind him with only one hand. It was flimsy, and Steve was already twisting his shoulder to shrug out of it when things began to go to hell. Instead of enforcing the armlock, Vanya let it loosen as he lowered his centre of gravity. His free left hand grabbed Steve’s left knee – an action that shocked Steve to no ends – and then reefed his leg to the side. At the same time, Vanya jammed his right knee into the back of Steve’s own. 

Steve was a mess of jolted balance and pulled limbs. His mind was fogging over in shock, yet somewhere in the back of the chaos, there was also appreciation. The strength and fluid shifts of weight that Vanya would have needed to pull that off were incredible. 

All admiration for the other man’s ability was lost when Steve fell throat first onto Vanya’s left knee. Blurrily, Steve wondered just how many damn knees Vanya had. 

Stunned and struggling for air, Steve planted face-first against the boxing ring floor. His right arm was pulled back, still in Vanya’s grip, and the result of Vanya’s unusual move with Steve’s knee meant that Steve had fallen right into a disadvantage. His legs were at an odd angle, his right caught under his folded body and his left off to the side in a right angle that allowed no leverage. His ankles were tangled together, and while his left arm was free, he realised it far too late. Vanya’s foot was already crushing down warningly on his wrist, grinding it into the mat. 

Steve had never been floored before. He’d been in scrapes that he didn’t win, but the loss had never been anything like this. Not with him a tangle of unusable, pinned limbs and with his cheek pressed to the sweat slickened ground. There wasn’t a single thing he could do to move or dislodge himself and even if there was, he was far too busy trying to breathe through the vicious blow to the throat to even try. 

He must have displayed the absolute defeat he felt because Vanya did take pity on him. It wasn’t fast, and it came with a cruel twist of his arm and a grind of his foot, but eventually, the Romanian spy let him go. 

Steve collapsed in a mess of stressed joints and bruised lungs.

Vanya crouched down beside him, his balance perfect as his forearms rested on his spread knees. Steve watched as his head tilted to the side. It was almost an endearing look, like a baby bird, but the other’s cold, calculating eyes ruined the effect. They rolled over Steve briefly before coming back to lock their gazes. 

Steve would have shuddered if his body had felt right. 

“You go out with trash.” It was a statement that he followed up with a single click of the fingers and a nasty grin. 

Voices started up again, and Steve felt the springy floor of the ring bounce as Vanya’s minions moved. Hands grabbed at his arms and shoulders and sides, hoisting and holding and stealing control away from Steve’s body. They practically carried him out of the ring, passing him down to others through the ropes and there was nothing that Steve could do. Nothing but look over his shoulder as Vanya straightened up and turned to the sound of his men cheering and joking. 

Vanya didn’t look back even once as Steve was dragged from the club and, true to instruction, dumped painfully into a pile of trash in the back alleyway. 

*****

**Part V Preview**

Gunshots had a way of echoing. They pinged off brick, glass and concrete, reverberating through closed areas with such a distinct boom that they couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. Not a car backfiring or the crack of a falling brick. Nothing compared to the pop of anger and fear that came from a gun. Steve had worked that out in Vietnam, and even halfway around the world, the sound was still the same. When you knew how they sounded both in the open and in the remains of a crumbling city, there was no way that they could be confused. 

Steve heard the shots from over a block away, and his first instinct was to hit the deck and seek cover. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> What did we all think? How amazing is Bucky?! Guess it wasn’t much of a meet-cute, was it? Did you all see that coming? 
> 
> What was your favourite bit? 
> 
> How is Steve ever going to win Bucky over???? 
> 
> **Fun Fact:** Steve and Bucky’s interaction here was the very first thing that I wrote for this story. It was the moment that solidified the characters, their strengths and differences and the way they played off each other, which, in turn, filtered out to shape the rest of the fic. I had the plot, obviously, but this was where I officially started writing and then worked back and forth from here. 
> 
> Shoutout to @WinterStorm1803 for totally getting the soundtrack song right!! Don’t know why, but _Long Cool Woman (In a Black Dress)_ is totally my Bucky’s themesong. Also, lols to all who assumed that Bucky was going to come in and ‘save’ Steve from the Russian Bear. 
> 
> **Head canon:** the Russian bear at the club is Alexei Shostakov. Doesn’t really fit the description, but I still just like the idea. The French guy is a nod to the idea that the other Howling Commandos are floating around there somewhere. 
> 
> Hopefully this chapter gave you some nice distraction during your quarantine and that you’re all being safe and smart. As always, kudos and comments fuel me and remind me that there are people outside of my little isolation bubble. 😉


	6. Part V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't actually planning on updating today (this was meant to be updated weekly, after all), but I'm in a good mood and being super productive, so let the chaos and anarchy continue!

**Part V**

Steve had hoped it would happen. 

He was in no position to guess, or pretend to know, but the idea of being dumped out in the trash and never seen again didn’t fit into his narrow-minded plan of meeting Barnes. He’d hoped that curiosity would win out, that Barnes would seek him out for a confrontation away from the rabble of the bar. Even if it was just to get to the bottom of his brazen and sudden appearance. 

And so when he unlocked his hotel room and closed the door behind him, he was only mildly surprised to be greeted by a stranger sitting in the French style armchair by the balcony door. The room was closed, and Steve didn’t try too hard to guess how they’d gotten past all the locks.

“What are you doing here?” 

Steve raised an eyebrow and looked towards his unexpectedly vocal guest. He almost stumbled in his attempt to kick his garbage-sodden shoes off.

The stumble home had been anything but pleasant. Sore and winded and stinking of garbage, he’d drawn more attention to himself than he would have liked. Steve had done his best to stumble a bit and stagger, all in the hopes of looking like an unfortunate drunk, but he was sure that it had done him little good. A few people had even tried to talk to him, no doubt checking to see if he was alright and that only heightened suspicion. Steve hadn’t understood a word and his silence marked him for what he was; a foreigner in a bad way. 

Coming home to find Vanya in his room was an expected surprise, and strangely, probably the first thing that had gone right for Steve all evening. 

Steve went on the faith that Vanya wasn’t about to shoot him the moment he turned his back and shuffled his way painfully into the bathroom. 

A quick glance at his reflection had Steve balking; no wonder people had side-eyed him all the way home. The skin around his right eye was puffy and already starting to bruise; the white of his eye was red and pink with busted capillaries. The split in his bottom lip had bled profusely, and while Steve had attempted to wipe the blood clear, he’d left a smear right along his chin and jawline. Steve grimaced as he pulled a greasy scrap of plastic packaging out of the back of his hair and tossed it towards the dust bin. 

As much as he wanted to jump into the shower, clothes and all, he knew that it wasn’t polite to keep a guest waiting. Even an uninvited one and especially not one that looked borderline erratically homicidal. 

He did his best to wash his face and rinse the muck out of the front of his hair before grabbing a towel and making his way back into the studio room, towelling off as he went.

Vanya was still there; still draped in the armchair like an impatient king. Steve tried not to stare and instead found his attention stolen by the strange twist of wires and assorted plastic shapes piling up near where he’d dumped his keys. 

Steve lifted an eyebrow questioningly while poking at the pile. He knew what they were. Bugs. Listening devices and spyware. Peggy had warned him that every room in every foreigner accepting hotel would be full of them. Thankfully Steve didn’t make a habit of talking to himself out loud, so there’d been no point in tampering with them. To do so would only make him overly suspicious to whoever was on the other end. 

Vanya, of course, didn’t play by those rules. Obviously, he didn’t want anyone overhearing whatever conversation they were going to have, nor did he seem to care about the light it would cast on Steve’s motives. 

“I’m glad you made yourself at home,” Steve mused as one of the crushed bugs crumbled at his touch. That must have taken a lot of force to break like that. He gathered that Vanya had used his boot; that or he carried a hammer in his jacket which, honestly, Steve wouldn’t have put past him.

“What are you doing here?” His guest repeated with a dark glower. 

Steve leant against the wall to the bathroom and looked his guest over. 

This wasn’t Vanya. Wasn’t the leader of some shady group with a love for American rock and smoky whiskey. This was Barnes. The black around his eyes was gone, his humidity curled hair pulled out of his face into a messy bun. Even the set of his jaw was different, and for the first time, Steve noticed the dimple in the middle of his chin and the slight overbite that tucked in the bottom of his face. 

Barnes. The immigrant and soldier; the mastermind behind the aliases and the man trained to adapt. 

The spy.

The words were crisp and fluent on his tongue, formed correctly and said with an accent so neutral that Steve wouldn’t have known where Barnes was from. There was no American jar to it, nor was it jaunty and British or accented like the hotel receptionist; Barnes spoke English like a man without a country which, Steve figured, was precisely what he was. Barnes was a ghost in every sense of the word. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Steve replied. “This is my room, after all.” 

“And this is _my_ city.” Blunt and straight to the point. Brash and bold; Steve almost smiled. It was everything that he’d assumed Barnes would be. 

Not that he’d been thinking about Barnes at all.

Steve was no diplomat. His strengths lay in cover fire and foolhardy actions, not pretty words made to sway and persuade. In his opinion, there was no point beating around the bush, so he jumped right to the heart of the matter. 

“I need your help,” he said while dropping his wallet on the armoire by the door. It made the sort of sound that echoed in the hollow silence that existed between them.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.” Some people could laugh while threatening to kill, and Barnes – Vanya – certainly seemed like the type. This was evident in the way he spoke, the humoured chuckle punctuating the fact that his statement was a warning. 

“Pretend all you want,” Steve raised a sarcastic eyebrow, confident in the fact that he’d have time to defend himself if Barnes decided to attack him. There was a reasonable distance between them this time. Steve would be ready. “But that’s why I’m here. I need your… expertise.”

“Oh, no!” Barnes smirked. The expression was cold and lifeless. “I’m done with this war,” He shrugged, his arms lifting palm upwards near his shoulders. “It killed me.” The dark, dry humour in those words sent a shiver down Steve’s spine, and once again he was left to wonder how the hell Barnes had pulled the whole ruse off. How he’d managed to survive the Lubyanka and trick both sides of the war into believing he was dead. How the hell had he gotten out of there?

“Yet,” Steve mused. He leant back against the wall, his eyes sweeping over his guest as he did his best to assess him. For all point and purpose, Barnes was a blank canvas. An emotionless void. Clearly, he’d been trained well. “You lead an army of _hajduk_.”

Barnes’ eyes narrowed at the term, and Steve knew he’d hit a nerve. One so profound that Barnes hadn’t been able to school his features. Granted, most of his reaction was no doubt surprise that Steve knew the word, but subtle as his response had been, it was still a tell. 

Steve dabbed at the dried blood that still mattered his eyebrow and tried not to watch Barnes too closely. 

“They’re not soldiers,” the sergeant eventually retorted. “When the Soviets or the Securitate come knocking,” Barnes pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly. “They’ll bow like everyone else.” 

“Only if you tell them to.”

“ _Because_ I tell them to.” Something in Barnes shifted then, became steely. Became Vanya. “I protect my own, Rogers. Something you should probably learn how to do.” It was a physical change that affected everything from the way he sat to the way his jaw tightened to the coldness in his eyes. “And now I have to tell them to move.” He finished. 

Steve felt his jaw tightening in answer. A bruise would be forming; a dark reminder of his run-in with The Winter Soldier, but even that hurt less than the implications behind those words. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from carrying on. 

“Why move? What the hell are you planning? You going to storm The House of the Republic and then the USSR?” No part of Steve wanted to feel like Barnes’ father, but with the tone of his voice and the way he crossed his arms over his chest at the hypothetical, Steve felt it was unavoidable.

Barnes rolled his eyes, and for a paranoid moment, Steve was sure that the other man was picking up on the parental vibe. “Oh yes,” Barnes said dryly, his voice so flat that it sounded robotic. “How ever did you work out my diabolical plan?” It wasn’t until he added, “Fucking Yankee moron,” to the end that there was any real sting. 

Steve let it slide. Hell, it wasn’t like he was that much of a die-hard patriot after the shitstorm of Vietnam anyway. 

“As much as we both know that you have a small army at your back, I’m not looking to get them involved.” He reasoned. “And I don’t care what your – and _their_ – endgame is. I just need to borrow you.” 

It was Barnes’ turn to look intrigued and stupid as it was, Steve had to admire the way he could cock his eyebrow in question and yet still appear so damn self-assured at the same time. It was a fucking talent. 

“Borrow me?” He repeated. “I’m not a library book you can check out, and my days of whoring myself for your shit-cunt of a country are done.” It was strange. He didn’t spit the words out. He said them around a smile, so patronizing and friendly that the bite behind them stung more than any loud cursing could. “But thanks for coming.”

“Buck-” Steve hadn’t even gotten through the whole nickname before Barnes was pulling him up. It was remarkable how fast he could change. Like a light switch; on and off. He was spitfire and hatred, his finger right in Steve’s face and his glare burning against his skin. Steve couldn’t even pinpoint the moment Barnes had gotten out of his seat, let alone crossed the room.

“You do _not_ get to call me that.” It was snarled out, accentuated with a jab of the finger and a look that burned like flame. “I am not your friend, and I owe you and your country nothing, so don’t even try.” 

“I’m sor-“

“You have twelve hours, Captain Rogers.” Barnes snarled. “Twelve hours to get the fuck out of my city.” 

“And if I don’t.” Steve wanted to kick himself the moment he said it. 

Barnes laughed, dry and mirthlessly. The sound was directed at Steve, making him feel like he was the butt of a joke that he would never understand. 

“How many people did you give the slip to get in here?” Barnes asked. It could have almost been a friendly discussion considering how close he was standing. “You think any of them are going to be chipping in for your transport out.” Barnes was so close that Steve could smell him over the stench of his own garbage-soaked clothes. Barnes was all smoke and sweat and gunpowder; deadly even in his civvies, and his head pushed into Steve’s personal space, his lips close enough to see the chapped patches as he spoke. “Especially when you’re zipped up in a body bag and incapable of trading any secrets.” 

And with that, Barnes was gone. Steve heard the door reef open even as his mind struggled to keep up with the threats and the damn feeling of having Barnes so, so close. 

With the slam of the door still ringing in his ears, it finally occurred to Steve that he’d never given Barnes – _Vanya_ – his name.

*****

Gunshots had a way of echoing. They pinged off brick, glass and concrete, reverberating through closed areas with such a distinct boom that they couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. Not a car backfiring or the crack of a falling brick. Nothing compared to the pop of anger and fear that came from a gun. Steve had worked that out in Vietnam, and even halfway around the world, the sound was still the same. When you knew how they sounded both in the open and in the remains of a crumbling city, there was no way that they could be confused. 

Steve heard the shots from over a block away, and his first instinct was to hit the deck and seek cover. 

All thoughts of seeking out Barnes fled. Ideas of arguing for truces and pleading for help were lost somewhere on Piața Unirii and no doubt crushed under a dictators’ town car.

Danger. 

Fight or flight. 

Steve’s heart raced in his chest, his hands instantly becoming clammy at his sides. He was unarmed. In an unknown location. 

His squad was dead. A helicopter stirred the leaves. 

A scream.

Steve sucked in a hard breath, his teeth sinking into the abused skin of his bottom lip. The pain helped. Reminded him he was alive. Where the hurt came from. A spy with dark eyes and fists that bruised. A concrete jungle and languages that weren’t Asian. 

Barnes’ twelve-hour cut off had come and gone, and while Steve wasn’t all that keen to play dodge with the devil, he was mildly surprised that Barnes hadn’t sent a hitman after him or something just as extreme. 

Steve had honestly thought about packing up and moving out; about giving up on the idea of having Barnes help him, but one major problem remained. If he did that, then he had nothing. He would be back to the task force SHIELD had put together, and Steve really wasn’t a fan of that. Peggy would be expecting some information from Steve’s ‘university contact’, which would leave Steve’s lie ripped open and exposed. 

It had been that thought that had driven Steve back to the club the following night. He had every intention of trying to reason – perhaps even plead – with Barnes for help, and this time Steve had resolved himself to being more pragmatic. Initially, he’d thought of tempting Barnes with the offer of bringing him home to America, but one too many punches to the head had knocked that clear out of Steve’s thoughts. He was going to try again, though, instead of America, he was resolved to playing the emotional card. 

He’d offer to take Barnes home. To his _family_. 

Steve wished he’d taken the time to look for Barnes’ mother and sister before leaving, but time hadn’t allowed it. His plea would have been a lot more convincing if he had a token from either of them to help sway Barnes to his side. 

At least, that had been the plan until Steve had heard the bullets. 

There was no guard at the door. That was the first thing that Steve noticed. About the Red Door, that was. The screaming and running civilians and the suffocating feeling of the early evening streets had been impossible to miss. Still, until this very moment, Steve could have lied to himself and pretended that it was all disconnected. That the panic and fear and heart-seizing sound wasn’t related to Saigon and its inhabitants. 

Steve’s mind faulted. No. Not Saigon. The panic was related to Barnes and his people. This wasn’t Vietnam. This was Bucharest, and the black door of The Red Door was open. 

Steve didn’t know what was stranger; the fact that it was silent inside, or the fact that his mind, stressed as it was, finally understood the name of the place. A red door painted black. It was a play on a song by The Rolling Stones. 

It was with that foggy moment of clarity hot in his mind that Steve stepped across the threshold. 

His fingers itched for a gun. After his three tours, Steve had been glad to put his weapons down for good. They caused nothing but heartache, sadness and nightmares. But now, with the sound of rapid-fire still echoing in his ears and the feeling of approaching doom lingering at the edges of his senses, Steve would have sold what was left of his soul for a weapon. He didn’t like walking into any place blind and unarmed, especially not somewhere clearly under attack. 

But The Red Door was quiet as Steve crept over the threshold. He could smell the tangy scent of gunpowder on the air and the overwhelming scent of humanity. Sweat and bile and god only knew what else. People said that blood had no smell, but Steve didn’t believe that. He’d had enough of that stench in his nose over the years to know that it was tangible and indistinguishable. 

He took the stairs slowly and carefully, half sticking to the shadows to avoid detection, but half wanting to make himself known. The last thing he wanted was to be mistaken for whoever had invaded the place. 

The further down he went, the more he suspected he wasn’t going to find anyone left alive. Steve could already see the bodies. There was a pile of police at the bottom of the stairs, and it had Steve steeling himself against what other horrors might lay within. 

What if Barnes had been killed? Honestly, Steve had no clue how he was going to sway the man into helping him, but all this would have been for nothing if the spy was already dead. Or, maybe even worse, taken. 

Steve would never forgive himself for it either. He may not have known a thing about Barnes – at least other than the records of his younger days – but he had the suspicion that Barnes would rather die than be taken alive. As much as it would eat him up inside, Steve knew he’d rather walk into the room as see Barnes’ corpse than not find him at all. He’d never stop wondering, and Steve wasn’t stupid enough to think that he’d be able to stage any sort of intervention or rescue mission. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathed. He stepped over the corpse, trying not to notice the difference between blood pooling on concrete as opposed to how it soaked into the damp soil of a jungle. Both were equally disturbing, but there was almost something poetic about the earth reclaiming what was spilt on it. 

Barnes was in the middle of the room, though Steve was already at a point where he was starting to clearly disassociate the different covers that Barnes had. This wasn’t James, wasn’t Bucky who smiled and laughed with his eyes. It wasn’t The Winter Soldier who’d glared so defiantly at the Soviet camera from his huddled position against the cell wall, trained not to flinch or say a word. 

But it also wasn’t Vanya. Not the cocky, pompous leader of a merry little bunch of cutthroats. The man who had almost pulled Steve’s arm off in a ring made for spectacle and excitement. 

This was _Lup Rosa_. The nom de plume of a man who’d brought himself back from the dead. Transfiguration and a walking ghost story. Someone who’d carved their name into a city while bleeding the USSR dry. A hero of the nation and a champion of the people. Their protector. The man who could snap his fingers and have an army of revolutionaries at his beck and call. The lifeblood of a nation tilting on the border of rebellion. 

He was pissed, and he was alone. 

Blood dripped down the side of his face. The knife in his left hand made a puddle of red on the floor by his foot. Steve would have thought it odd that the blade was in Vanya’s non-dominant hand if the gun hadn’t been in his right. 

Ambidextrous, Steve noted; double the threat. Clearly, it had taken the corpses at Lup Rosa’s feet by surprise. Steve couldn’t even tell what was a bullet hole and what was stab wound, other than the obvious throat slashes. 

Looking around, Steve had to wonder how many of the corpses Barnes had made. 

Another part of him was sure that he never wanted to know. 

He could pick out the _hajduk_ , either through faces that he’d remembered or the way they were dressed. More disconcerting was the way that they’d fallen. United and in formation, a circle around Barnes that Steve was sure the sergeant would have hated. He could just imagine Barnes yelling at them to fall back and run. 

Clearly, the casualties were high on both sides. The only things that moved in the room were Barnes and himself, and Steve darkly wondered how many people Barnes had cut through to be the last one alive after all his men had died. 

Steve knew that feeling. Knew what it was like to wade knee-deep through mud made from the blood of his troops.

Not knowing what the fuck to say, or what the hell to call Barnes, Steve opted for passive neutrality. “We need to go,” he urged. He did his best to keep his tone calm and unthreatening, but there was no denying the urgency bubbling within Steve’s chest. It sat heavy in his throat. Like blood, he thought darkly. 

Barnes reacted, but not in the way that Steve had been expecting. He’d anticipated motionlessness; where he’d have to snap Barnes out of his dark thoughts and get him to respond. Maybe even a flinch or jump at the sound of his voice. 

Instead, Steve got the full weight of just how fast and deadly Barnes could be. 

One minute he was standing there, head down and blood running, and the next his gun was aimed at Steve’s head. 

There was this moment; this defining shine of clarity in Barnes’ eyes where it was evident that he recognized Steve. He was sane and coherent and present, and he knew precisely who Steve was. 

Barnes pulled the trigger anyway.

*****

**Part VI Preview**

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No preview this time, because I couldn’t pick anything that I wanted to use that wouldn’t give too much away. You can complain in the comments! Lol. 
> 
> Anyway. Wasn’t that a ride? Did ya’ll see that coming? Also, bless The Falcon and The Winter Soldier for giving us that gif of Bucky with the gun. I totally wrote all this aaagggges before any of that trailer stuff came out (I think some of these parts were even done before Endgame!) but now all I can see is that gif when reading this cliff-hanger. 😉 
> 
> As always, I love to know what you think, and what your favourite bits were. Mine was Barnes getting all sassy about being ‘borrowed’. I really do like bitchy Bucky. 
> 
> Comments and kudos go great with beer, so don’t forget to feed this tipsy writer! 😉


	7. Part VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I’m an idiot. You know what I forgot to do? Post the art for boxer Bucky in their first meeting chapter! 
> 
> So here. It’s late (and if you’ve been on my website, then you probably would have already seen it) but have some anime Bucky, as done by the wonderful Larxene! 
> 
> …And now, here we go again!

  


**Part VI**

Steve had always found it funny how so many things could flash through his mind at once. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, his mind was a kaleidoscope of thoughts. It was an overkill of images, taken from the past, ideas of the future and the focused realities of the present. It was headache-inducing and terrifying and painted a surreal filter over the world around him. 

Now, for instance, was one of those moments.

He saw Barnes lift his arm. Saw that flash of metal as the barrel was levelled at his head, and he saw the way that Barnes’ head tilted indifferently to the side. Steve’s mind ran through all the variables; Barnes wouldn’t shoot. Wouldn’t shoot _him_. Barnes _will_ shoot. Barnes had threatened him last night, and Steve was a good ten hours over Barnes’ boundaries.

Steve saw the very moment when Barnes pulled the trigger.

His body had been rooted to the spot.

Steve had always prided himself on his response time. His survival instincts had seen him through a lot of terror and death-defying situations. Yet, standing there with Barnes holding a gun to his head and pulling the trigger, Steve had been left with nothing. No will to duck or run, no desire to try and wrestle the gun free.

In a way, he felt the full force of his actions weighing him down. His mind flashed through everything; the files and the foolhardy attempt to secure Barnes’ help. The bodies on the floor and the rage in Barnes’ eyes. It was all there, splayed out in Steve’s mind with information overload.

But the gun clicked audibly, the chamber empty, and the dull sound echoed loudly around the quiet, dead room.

Barnes snarled and tossed the gun to the floor. Steve watched it go; it bounced off a corpse before clattering to the floor, useless without further bullets.

The moment finally shattered in Steve’s mind. One second, he’d been fine; oddly calm about the whole scenario and then the next his body threatened to turn to jelly. Barnes had just tried to shoot him. In the head.

Barnes had just tried to _kill_ _him_.

Steve felt like his heart was about to beat out of his chest; not in a good, overly flattering sort of way. The build of adrenaline and the drop that came after had his hands clammy at his sides, and his lungs struggling to draw in enough air to keep his head from feeling light.

Steve was still dealing with the fact that the recent object of his single-minded attention span had just tried to shoot him in the head when a cough had Steve flinching and Barnes moving across the room. From the way Barnes hurried, the sound wasn’t meant as a threat, and Steve was only just feeling like himself again when he watched Barnes kneel in a pool of blood.

With his hands still shaking, Steve did his best not to step on anyone as he followed. What he saw when he got there, chilled him to the bone.

It was the first man Steve had spoken to at Red Door. The giant Russian who’d tried to crush Steve with his bare hands. Blood was everywhere, and he’d clearly lost a round with a shrapnel bomb and taken more than anyone’s share of slugs to the chest. He was still clutching at a gun, and Barnes eased it away with a whisper and gentle hands.

Barnes leant over him like a grieving figure from an old story, his hair falling like a curtain around his face as he pressed their foreheads together.

“I’m sorry,” Barnes was saying softly. It came out first in English, then in what sounded like Romanian. After that, it was a mantra of Russian. Or at least Steve assumed. 

It seemed to calm the dying man. He gripped at Barnes even as he coughed, his lips trying to form words despite no sound coming out. Steve knew the colour and thickness of the spittle that came out of his mouth. Punctured lungs and a slow, painful end. The Russian giant left a smear of blood on Barnes’ cheek as he patted him in what could only be perceived as affection. Despite the simmering panic sitting heavy in Steve’s own throat, he found the connection to the question he’d wondered when he’d first came here.

Barnes ruled out of love and respect; not an iron fist and fear.

Breathing deeply through his mouth, Steve averted his eyes and looked to the room. It was a slaughterhouse, only now he saw it clearly. They’d all died for Barnes. All thrown themselves in the way of harm and offered protection. There wasn’t a single KGB agent left alive; the only living things left were Steve, Barnes and the resilient Russian bear.

At least for the moment. The way the dying man was heaving in Barnes’ arms didn’t speak well for his longevity. Steve knew it, and he knew that Barnes did too. Even if he did make it through the night, there’d be nothing but darkness and pain at the hands of the _Securitate_. It would make for an end worse than bleeding out on the floor.

Steve hadn’t expected Barnes to have a third option, and Steve jumped at the loud sound of the shot. 

The Russian’s hand finally dropped when Barnes’ released a bullet into his heart, the sound muffled at the point-blank range but still earth-shatteringly loud in the silent room.

“Мне жаль.”

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat and tried not to shift. It was a mercy kill, but that didn’t dull the impact.

Barnes was still as a tombstone, leaning over his friend as the body went cold, and Steve couldn’t help but think that he’d witnessed something that he shouldn’t have. Something like that should have been a private moment; something between friends and comrades, not with an uninvited stranger watching on.

When Barnes stood up, Steve made sure that his eyes were averted.

The silence in the room was eerie, but it didn’t last for long.

“ _You_ brought them here!” Barnes accused, his eyes flaring dangerously and his index finger pointing heatedly towards Steve. It seemed to be a habit. “To us!”

There was such fire in Barnes’ eyes, such chaotic hatred and fear and calculation. It was Vanya that looked at him, but Barnes who spoke. American and clipped in his anger, there was no hint of accent as he spat his accusations across the blood slicked floor.

There was nothing more dangerous than a cunning man with nothing but his life to lose.

“They died because of you! Because you came blundering on in here with your goddamn stars and stripes thinking that you _owned the whole fucking world_.” Barnes’ eyes swept him up and down as he took a dangerous step closer. “ _You_ pulled this trigger.”

The assault of the words and the fury behind them had Steve floored. He’d known that he and Barnes were already off to a rocky start, and as much as he’d liked to think that they’d be able to put it behind them, he quickly realised that their relationship was on a fast decline.

“A lot of good men died because of you today!”

It was all Steve could take. Setting his jaw and lifting his head, he glared back at the spy and stood his ground. “And they died _for_ you!”

“Don’t you _fucking_ dare!” Barnes hissed.

Steve shouldn’t have said it, shouldn’t have pointed out the obvious. Hell, when it came to life, there was a lot that he shouldn’t have said and done. But the words had happened before he’d rationally thought about them, and then Barnes’ eyes flashed, and the world went to hell. Again.

Barnes was like black fire; a streak of violent movement across the bloody backdrop of their surroundings. He was so damn _fast_. He was in Steve’s face in an instant, his blood-splattered hands shoving Steve’s chest with the weight of a boulder.

Steve stumbled back, his feet slipping in blood and threatening to catch on something. A wrist? A foot? He tried not to think as he wheeled back, seeking stable ground. His hand found the edge of the boxing ring, and he defiantly pushed himself back up to full height.

“How would you like it, huh?” Barnes snarled, “If I went stumbling around your world and brought the KGB in? Would it be your fault if they shot your buddy, Wilson?”

Steve’s world narrowed in at the name. It went from defensive and understanding to protective rage.

“Don’t bring…” Steve started before changing tactics. “How do you know his name?”

“I’m a spy, Rogers, it’s my job to know my enemy.” The words came with yet another push, and yet again, Steve stumbled back. Everything in him wanted to strike out. To stop Barnes from pushing him around, but getting into a physical fight wasn’t smart right now. It hadn’t worked out all that well for Steve the night before, and now that Barnes was enraged and once again armed, it would be little more than a suicide attempt for Steve.

“I’m not your enemy,” he tried to reason.

“Try telling that to them.” The way Barnes swept his arm across the room made it clear that he was pinning the death of all his men on Steve. It was unfair and born of anger and hurt, but deep down, Steve could see the point. It had been Sam who’d pointed out that someone was using Steve to flush Barnes out, and now in a room full of corpses and blood, it was a harshly apparent truth.

Telling Barnes he was being irrational wasn’t going to get them anywhere, nor was trying to reason that none of the men would have died if Barnes hadn’t indulged them in their terrorist antics. Even if they were on the right side – the _human_ side of all this – Barnes and his followers were extremists fighting against their government. There were very few ways an operation like this could have ended.

Despite that, Steve was starting to see Barnes’ problem. He’d thought about it a lot during the night when he couldn’t sleep. Barnes couldn’t stay in the USSR, couldn’t go back to America, and papers weren’t exactly easy to come by to sneak into Western Europe. Romania was home. There were people here who knew him, who loved and protected him, and with all his dark and violent training, Barnes had been able to make a life for himself here. Chase out the bad seeds and keep his little world of lookouts and spies safe. Maybe he’d even managed to reclaim an element of his childhood. A name that wasn’t American or Russian or linked to a corpse. An alias that Steve didn’t know; one Barnes had been born with and had kept close to his heart and out of damning files.

And now the KGB were knocking at the door with the intent to kill, and it was all because of Steve.

“This was all I had,” Barnes snarled. “And now you’ve taken that away from me too. Because why? Your fucking mess-of-a-county wants help? Fuck that!”

“It’s not my _country_ that wants-”

And that was when a small item rolled in between them with a tinny, rattling sound that Steve would know anywhere.

 _Panic_.

Steve couldn’t breathe. Hot. Cold. Blinding light; Steve was shivering as he sweat bullets. Clammy hands. Heavy limbs. His heart pounded in his chest. Sweat stung his eyes.

He couldn’t fucking _see_.

But he could _hear_. The _chop-chop-chop_ of blades in the air. Rattling gunfire. Wind in the trees and the squelch of boots in endless, endless red mud. The gentle slap of giant leaves against sticky skin.

Barnes gasping.

The sound was so real, so close. Steve could touch it if he wanted. His sweaty palms could grip that sound out of the air and hold it close. Protect it.

That did it. That weird little thought and Steve was in a hole-in-the-wall dive in Bucharest. Not the stifling jungle where bugs crawled on skin and trench foot _itched_.

“MOVE!” he yelled. He didn’t know what part of Barnes he was holding onto, but it was warm and wet and sticky. Blood covered. Hair tangled in between Steve’s fingers as he tightened his grip and _yanked_. Head; Steve’s brain supplied. He was dragging Barnes out by his head, but he wasn’t about to stop. Not when death came so painfully and quick, all wrapped up in such a small little package. You were together, and then you weren’t; that’s how it was described.

“I’m moving-let go!” It was all snarled together, and it was honestly more the fact that Barnes seemed to be propelling himself forward with his own two feet that made Steve pay attention.

He pushed Barnes in front of him and down, cowering them into a corner behind a series of overturned tables. There were arms and legs around them that didn’t belong to either, and Steve closed his eyes to the corpses as the world broke apart. 

For a minute – just a collection of seconds that never seemed to end – the whole world shook and Barnes, still in Steve’s grip, was the only thing that was real.

As far as explosions went, the grenade only packed a small punch. It wasn’t like a landmine or the potato mashers that had erupted entire sections of jungle and broken men apart. But it still shook the foundations, and there was a wave of heat as the sound subsided. Whoever had thrown it was more intent on clearing the way and creating confusion than blowing any survivors to smithereens.

Clearly, they wanted to take some of them alive.

“Up,” Steve ordered. He wasn’t sure how he got himself to his feet, but Steve knew he was standing, and he knew that he once again had a handful of something attached to Barnes. He could feel stickiness and warmth, and he did his best to focus on the idea of living skin and leather and not clotting blood and tropic-clammy flesh.

Things seemed to switch then. Steve kept moving – always moving – but Barnes led the way. One door then another, then cold air soaked Steve’s sweaty skin, and Barnes swore loudly in his ear. Behind them, the door banged closed, and Steve wondered what it was made out of.

Clarity returned to Steve as he sucked in the cool evening air. The smell of garbage accompanied it, and his eyes darted to the side to see the skip bin he’d been dumped in last night. Judging by the smell, it still hadn’t been emptied.

“We have to go,” he hissed. It was an obvious statement, but he felt like it needed to be said. Especially with how Barnes had stopped. They’d hit the back alleyway, and instead of bolting like any rational person would, Barnes had started pulling guns out of pockets Steve hadn’t even seen, and clips of ammo out of god only knew where.

“You can run,” Barnes said coldly. It didn’t carry the weight of his hatred; he was dismissing Steve as he armed himself for war.

“You can’t win this, Barnes!”

The sounds from The Red Door were starting to deafen Steve. Boots on the concrete; battering rams at the door. A foreign language screamed so loud that he could hear it through the jungle. It came over the sound of choppers and the choked sound of rifles jamming in the humidity that Steve knew only he could hear. 

He had to shake his head. Clear the fog of memories from the desperation of the present.

The KGB – he assumed – was storming the place and they needed to be gone; needed to have been out of here ages ago.

“Bucky. Now!” He was pulling at Barnes’ arm. Trying to move him was like trying to drag stone. He was part of the concrete, his feet dried in blood and rooted to the floor. Barnes’ eyes flashed dangerously towards the back door, looking like the sort of demon that could take on an entire government and win.

“Dying now won’t bring them back!” Steve hissed. He knew those words almost better than he did his own name. They’d been said to him before. Hissed out over the sound of gunfire as his men died in the swamps around them. Sam had driven the words home with a slap to the face, but Steve thought it best not to press his luck that far with Barnes.

Thankfully, the words seemed to work with his new companion, and finally, _finally_ , Barnes seemed to see reason. He was still fiddling with the clips of his pistols, his blood crusted hands making the process hard, but at least he was moving with Steve. It was slow at first, but as Steve gradually turned his rushed steps into a jog, Barnes naturally matched the pace. They were going; Steve didn’t know where, but at least he’d gotten Barnes to cooperate and move, and they could take their chances with the streets together.

It all fell apart so fast.

The door behind them burst open, someone shouted, and the sound of the voice had Barnes faltering in his step. Steve glanced to the side just in time to see Barnes frown. It was the look of a man who’d seen – or, in this case, heard – a ghost.

Before Steve could say anything to snap Barnes out of it, the Romanian spy wheeled on his heels and pulled his gun with one fluid motion.

The sound of the gun firing palled in comparison to the sound of Barnes hitting the floor. One minute he was there, arm lifted to take the shot, and the next he crumpled like a rag doll, limp and lifeless as his opponent outdrew him. Barnes collided heavily, and Steve felt blood splatter against his cheek.

Sometimes, Steve believed, life liked to throw a fork in the road. A momentous decision that should have warranted days of contemplation but instead was given only a split second to decide. This was one of those moments.

Steve’s eyes flashed up from Barnes’ body and locked on the lone figure at the door. The man had a heavy SWAT helmet on, but even through that, Steve could hear him screaming for backup. The KGB assassin wasted no time in turning his gun towards Steve.

Fight or flight. Kill or be killed. Run or stay. The options flashed through Steve’s mind like the blinding white of machine gun fire.

He hit the deck before he even knew he’d made a conscious choice.

A gunshot reverberated off the walls of the alleyway, the bullet sailing through the air where Steve’s head had been. Barnes was a still heat beside him, and Steve’s mouth twitched as he felt Barnes’ fingers flex as he pulled the pistol from his hand. Survival and instinct kicked in as Steve raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

The man at the doorway crumpled to the floor before getting off another shot, and Steve let the weight of his decision settle into the pit of his stomach. He’d vowed to never take another life after Vietnam, but, he guessed, there was a part of him that had always known the chances of keeping that promise were slim. Especially when there was someone who needed protection. It was the sort of situation that made him happy to pay the price of another life marked against his soul.

Scrambling to his feet, Steve reached down and grabbed Barnes’ arm to haul him up. Barnes groaned and staggered in pain, but that just meant that he was alive.

Steve threw Barnes’ arm over his shoulders and wrapped a hand around the other man’s waist. He took the majority of Barnes’ weight and started dragging them down the alleyway.

He had no clue where to go. Rationally, he knew that they wouldn’t make it far, just as he knew that going back to the hotel was a death sentence. He also knew that they were both covered in blood and Barnes especially, looked like the rebel soldier he was. Whoever was chasing them would be able to flush them out the moment people started reporting the disturbing scene of an obvious foreigner hauling a wounded man through the streets of Bucharest.

All but dragging Barnes around a corner, Steve grit his teeth and steeled his resolve. He’d find somewhere for them to hide if it was the last thing he did.

Bitterly, he admitted that that could very well be a possibility.

*****

**Part VII Preview:**

When Barnes had said he knew of a smuggler, Steve hadn’t been expecting this.

Another Soviet bear had been in his mind. A huge blonde with the stony face of someone used to killing people for fun, and arms that could carry a corpse across a border. That was what Steve had been prepared for; what he felt should have rightly been expected.

Never did a pint-sized woman with hair the colour of Peggy’s lipstick and a pixie nose come to mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looooove seeing (well, reading) all of your reactions and predictions. Lots of you seemed to think that Bucky was shooting someone behind Steve in some heroic act. No. He was honestly trying to kill him. It’s open for debate as to if he knew he was out of bullets or not… 
> 
> As for those asking about The Russian Bear… I’m sorry. But it had to happen otherwise Barnes would never leave. 
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful Selio! I’m enjoying a glass of wine right now. *loves on you* 
> 
> I really love this chapter, mostly because it broke my beta 😊 She was so angry with Steve, and yeah, rightly so. He’s being pretty arrogant and narrowminded here. He still doesn’t have a proper grasp on the situation that he’s in and what is really at stake. He'll get there, though ~~and prove that he's worthy of badass Bucky~~
> 
> How are you all feeling about Steve at the moment? 
> 
> Anyway. Exciting things ahead!!! As always, I love hearing what you all think! Your comments and reactions make my days (and, let’s face it, are pretty much the most social interaction I’m having these days! Lol)


	8. Part VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had a few kinda depressed, really _meh_ days, but this morning I woke up with Blow by Ed Sheeran and Co in my head and so now that’s somehow become the (un)official theme song for this chapter. XD
> 
> Also, here begins the Bitchy Bucky part of the story 😊

# Part VII

“Really, Rogers?” Steve looked up from the spot on the floor he’d found mindlessly interesting during the past hours and was met with his companion’s angry glare. “Either you’re into some mildly kinky shit, or you’re dumb enough to think that this is going to hold me.”

Steve had made the brash decision to try and restrain Barnes. Mostly, it had been due to paranoia. If Steve nodded off, then he wanted to hear that Barnes was awake. It would at least buy him seconds to wake up before the operative tried to kill him. But Barnes was also a fitful sleeper – or a fitful unconscious man – and by halfway through the morning, Steve had been glad that he’d secured him even loosely. Barnes would have likely only caused himself more damage while jostling around freely.

It was shoddy work, and Steve held no real hopes of it keeping Barnes in place, but it had done the trick. If Barnes hadn’t spoken, then the pull and rattle of the old radiator that Barnes was secured to would have alerted Steve.

As expected, Barnes slipped the ropes in seconds. Steve was watching, and yet he still couldn’t have explained or replicated how Barnes did it. One minute he was secured and the next he was pushing his hand through his hair, his fingers pausing as they met the material of the makeshift bandage.

“Careful,” Steve started only to realise how stupid that would have sounded. “You were bleeding pretty bad,” he instead offered. By the look that passed over Barnes’ face, the operative had clearly already assessed that himself.

That was all the attention Barnes spared him before he was gripping the wall behind him and trying to get to his feet.

Steve grimaced and automatically shuffled forward, reaching out to try and stabilise him. “I don’t think that’s-”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Barnes hissed. Steve pulled his hands back, holding them up by his shoulders in a sign of compliance.

Barnes tried again, and Steve saw the smallest flash of pain in his eyes before he finally gave up. The spy sat back down with a huff and a tentative prod at his head. It had to be killing him; while it was technically just a graze, Steve knew that any run-in with a bullet hurt like all hell. He’d done his best to prod and poke at Barnes while he was out, and while Steve was no medic, he had enough field training to know the difference between an injury and a wound. The bullet had dug a good chunk of skin out of Barnes’ forehead, and he’d no doubt have a scar for the rest of his life, but his skull didn’t budge or show any other signs of a fracture. 

The reality was that he’d been lucky; Steve had seen a lot of others not so fortunate. When Barnes had been shot in the alleyway and gone down, Steve had thought the worst. He’d known Barnes was alive when he’d pulled the gun from his hand, but even then, it wasn’t until Steve had pulled them into the derelict building that he’d seen what had happened. He’d thought Barnes had taken a direct hit to the head, so while the gash was deep and nasty, it was a close, fortunate call. Either the KGB operative’s aim had been off, or Barnes lived by some insane luck that had him turning his head just in time.

It gradually became apparent that Barnes had no intention of speaking again, which left Steve with the uneasy knowledge that he was going to have to be the one to break the silence.

“I’m sorry about… about what happened.”

“Don’t.”

Steve blinked, wondering what Barnes meant by that. Don’t be sorry? No. That didn’t seem fitting for Barnes. Steve got the impression that Barnes would want him to suffer from his guilt and blame as much as possible. Maybe he’d meant not to speak. That was a little more believable.

Sadly, it was a request that Steve couldn’t grant. Given what had happened to Barnes’ crew, it was clear that time was of the essence. If they’d found Barnes, then Steve was made as well. Or, if Barnes’ earlier accusations were to be believed, Steve had been made the moment he’d touched down in Bucharest, and everything had just been one gigantic, painful chain reaction.

With no reason not to and no better time than now, Steve shifted to get as comfortable as possible and broke the silence again.

“There’s this Slavic old legend,” Steve began. Barnes was oddly quiet in his current state of defeat and Steve took it for the opportunity it was. “A bloody battle of good versus evil played out between these gods, Svarog and Chernobog. Chernobog had this staff that heightens the darkness in the hearts of men. He used it to control humanity and convince them to fight against the gods of light. Of good.”

He'd practised this speech over and over again in his head, trying to pinpoint the best ways to convince Barnes of the severity of the cause, while swaying him towards providing help. Time again, Steve had found his own jumbled attempts lacking. He wished he could write it all down and perfect it, but the reality was that he had a lot to explain in a timeline shortened by Barnes’ temper. He simply had to press on and hope that he was understood.

“A few weeks ago now, a file was left on my desk suggesting that this item might actually exist. Science. Magic. I don’t understand it myself, but someone with access to military files seems to think that this _thing_ is in the Soviet Union and that it can reshape the world through nuclear weaponry.”

“You-you ruined…” Barnes stuttered, shocking Steve with how human he seemed in that moment. He’d never heard Barnes stutter before. “Ruined their lives, and the lives of their families for a _fairy-tale_?”

“It’s not li-”

“It’s _exactly_ like that, Rogers!”

“This thing-”

“Is now a good time to tell you that Santa Claus isn’t real?” Barnes continued his tirade. Steve sighed and stopped, his shoulders hunching as he deflated and allowed Barnes to get it all out. Really, Steve hadn’t expected anything less, and if he was entirely honest, part of him was glad to see Barnes flying off the rails. It fit more with what Steve knew of him than the quiet, wounded man he’d just been. “Do we need to talk about the Easter Bunny?”

“If this is real,” Steve tried again once Barnes had stopped. His anger was taking a toll on him. Steve could see it in the way that Barnes once again held a hand to his head and how any attempt at a frown smoothed out in moments. Given the placement of the wound, it no doubt hurt to pull his muscles and skin in any expression.

“ _If_?” Barnes stressed. “So, let me get this straight.”

Steve could see the way Barnes’ mind was kicking in. It was like watching cogs fuelling a machine, and he already knew that he wasn’t going to like the conclusions Barnes drew.

“You. _America_ ,” he seemed to correct. Even the way he said the name of the country come out like a spit, thick with an accent that was neither Russian nor American. For the first time, Steve thought maybe he was hearing Barnes’ Romanian side shining through. His real voice. “Blew up my world because you think an old Slavic fairy-tale is going to blow up yours?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Really?” Barnes deadpanned. “You what? Just picked my door to come strolling into and thought _‘why the hell not?_ ’?”

“I didn’t even know you existed!” Steve shot back. It was harsh but true, and it managed to shut Barnes up for a moment. “Not at the start. But someone does. Your file was cold dropped on my desk just days after someone left the Chernobog file.”

Steve had been privy to some of Barnes’ darkest looks over the short time they’d known each other, but something in the other man’s eyes was different. A ghost of a memory and a shadow of doubt seemed to have Barnes narrowing and dropping his eyes.

“It was everything.” Steve lowered his voice. He didn’t want to argue, and he didn’t want to push Barnes too far. Maybe the truth would help them both and soothe the rage in Barnes’ soul. “Your enlistment details, your training. Your capture and execution in Lubyanka. Your miraculous return from the dead. Photos of you in Brasov. They took photos of you in front of your own damn bar. That’s how I found it.”

Steve finished with a sigh. “I know that you think I lead them to you, and you’re… well, you’re probably not wrong. But someone led me as well. Someone knew exactly who you are and where you’ve been, and they’ve been tracking you for years.”

Perhaps he was kidding himself, but Steve felt like he was finally getting through to Barnes. That calculating darkness was back in the spy’s eyes, and for the first time since they’d met, Steve didn’t feel like it was entirely directed at him.

“There is someone a lot scarier than me after you, so right now, I’m going to go on a limb and say that I’m your best option of multiple evils.”

Barnes ran both hands over his face, pressing in on darkened eyes like he could push the sleeplessness back. Right now, more than ever before, Steve knew that he was faced with _Barnes_. There may have been a lot of personality fragments that made up the real man behind the aliases, but there was no denying that there was a human-realness to Barnes right now. He was tired, he was defeated, and he was injured, and for that split second, he was clearly overwhelmed. So very, very overwhelmed and lost.

Steve didn’t mean to be an opportunist, but he had to take what he could and work with it.

“Bucky,” Steve finished the nickname despite the instant glare directed his way. The heat of those eyes shattered the tangible realness that Steve had seen, but he pressed on. “I know you don’t want this, and if there was any other way, then I wouldn’t be here. But like it or not, someone else, some watcher linked to god-knows-what government, thinks you’re important in all this. You’re involved whether you want to be or not.”

“What don’t you understand, Rogers? I am done with your war, and your fucking politics.” He shook his head slightly, and for just a second, he looked lost and young. Like that soldier sitting on the jeep with a cigarette in his mouth. “Your leaders are just as bad as the Soviets; all you Americans are just too blindly patriotic to realise that.” 

“I _know_ ,” Steve rationalised. The look on Barnes’ face suggested that he didn’t buy it. “And I do get it. I’ve read your file, and I can’t even begin to understand. What you’ve been through. What you’re thinking now? I-”

“Then why. Are. You. Here?” Barnes bit each word as he said them, snarling them over his teeth and delivering them as a verbal punch.

“Because,” Steve searched. “Because maybe you’re not wrong. About the politics, and the agendas. But mostly because this is bigger than us. Bigger than you. Bigger than me. Bigger than America and the USSR and their pissing contest.”

“Bigger than all the lives lost today?”

There was such honesty in Barnes’ voice when he asked; like he was waiting on an answer that could define the world.

“Honestly? Yes.” It killed Steve to say it, but at least his penance was immediate. The way Barnes’ face seemed to droop, the fire draining out of his eyes, hurt. Steve had to remember that Barnes’ world had just fallen apart. That despite all that the spy had been through, things had still managed to get worse. He also had to remember that the last time Barnes was awake, he’d mercy-killed a friend. Steve knew what that did to a person, and it wasn’t a feeling that was going to settle and leave any time soon.

“I know it’s easy to dismiss this as a silly old legend, especially in light of what’s just happened, but someone out there has taken the time to theorise weapons of catastrophic proportions using this object as a base.

“If there is even a _slight_ chance that this is real, then someone needs to stop it. Weapons like the ones outlined should never be made. Not by anyone.” Steve thoroughly believed that. The last thing the world needed was another way in which to blow itself up. The last thing Steve wanted was to see this weapon in the hands of the Soviets, but that didn’t mean that he wanted his government to wield that sort of power either.

“I’m not a spy. I don’t know why the files were on my desk. But I do know that if someone doesn’t do something and either side gets their hands on this, millions of people will die. And I don’t want to live with that. I can’t.”

Steve was tempted to end it with a question. To test Barnes and judge his reasoning. Could Barnes really justify his compliance and refusal to help by citing his prejudice against both of the world’s superpowers? Could he actually live with that? Steve really wasn’t sure, and once again, he was struck with the understanding of just how little he really knew about Barnes. Not about the Winter Soldier, or any of the other personas that Barnes’ had lived, but about James Barnes himself. The boy from Romania with hope in his eyes and a heart full of dreams.

Steve opted for a softer attempt. One that might appeal to Barnes’ conscious instead of being seen as a challenge.

“And I know I can’t do this on my own.” Steve offered. “I _need_ help. And whoever left these files thinks that you should be involved. Now I don’t know if we’re destined to clash over it, or if they thought you’d be the one to help me, but I’m really hoping for the latter.

“I’d like you to be on my side. Not America’s. Not the Western side. But the side of the millions of innocent people this could destroy if it fell into the hands of _either_ government.”

Nothing could be more honest than that. Steve had acted for his country. He’d gone to London for his country. He’d listened to the crème de la crème of intelligence operatives all for his country.

But he’d slipped them for a reason. He’d come to Bucharest to chase a ghost for a reason.

Whether either of them liked it or not, he needed a guide and a translator, and he needed one who was sympathetic to neither side. An unbiased operative who would help him stop this and bury it. Not bring a dangerous weapon into the hands of a power-hungry government.

Steve had always considered himself a patriot. He’d gone to war for his country. At the time he’d been young and sure; headstrong and cocky. Just another jarhead off to fight the good fight. But war had a way of slapping you in the face, and as the years had passed and Steve had put countless friends and nameless faces to rest, his outlook had started to change. He questioned things; orders; his government’s motives; his own abilities and convictions. He’d still always be patriotic, but now he had a broader understanding of the world, making it possible to choose what he’d support.

He wondered if Barnes felt and thought the same way. Steve could see a plethora of emotions playing over Barnes’ face, his body too sore and his mind too tired to really cloak his expression. It was the most readable and relatable the man had been.

“I don’t like you,” Barnes said eventually. Steve figured that was fair, all things considered, even if it was a little harsh. Barnes wasn’t done, though. “And when this is all over, you go back to your country. You stay the fuck out of mine, and I never want to see you again."

Nibbling on his bottom lip, Steve endured the words and once again reasoned that they were fair.

He remembered sitting in a bar with Sam, all the way on the other side of the world and laughing about a pretty smile and chasing down a date. It had all be fun and games and jokes, of course, but Steve couldn’t deny that he’d felt drawn to Barnes. When he’d seen him in action, both commanding his men and then eliminating the threats that had followed, Steve had felt that sense of connection intensify.

But real life didn’t offer love at first sight and happy endings. Especially not for people like Steve and, he guessed, not for people as complex and tangible as Barnes. Relationships took trust and understanding, and even weighing in on all odds that Barnes might be so inclined towards men, Steve knew that there was little hope for the likes of them. They’d always be waiting for the other to pounce; always waiting for that final bullet in the dark that would seal years of deception and hatred.

Lost in his own thoughts, it took Barnes clearing his throat to get Steve blinking and cocking his head to the side.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked for clarification.

“I said,” Barnes bit out, “that we’ll need to get out of Romania first and actually into the Soviet Union. I’m assuming you have no plans for achieving that?”

Steve wasn’t used to looking sheepish, but there was no other way to describe the look that crossed his face. Barnes responded by rolling his eyes.

“I know someone who might help,” Barnes sighed. “If they’re still in town, at least.”

*****

“You got a death wish, Morozov?”

When Barnes had said he knew of a smuggler, Steve hadn’t been expecting this.

Another Soviet bear had been in his mind. A huge blonde with the stony face of someone used to killing people for fun, and arms that could carry a corpse across a border. That was what Steve had been prepared for; what he felt should have rightly been expected.

Never did a pint-sized woman with hair the colour of Peggy’s lipstick and a pixie nose come to mind. It was yet another difference between this world of spies and the war zones of Steve’s past. The most unassuming person could easily be the deadliest here, and given the woman’s everyday appearance and, dare Steve say, attractiveness, he was sure that she could pull the wool over many a border guards eye.

Like Barnes, there was just _something_ about her though. A toughness under the skin and the trace of wary calculation in the depths of her gaze. Steve felt it as she gave him a quick once over before she looked back to Barnes.

“You already knew that,” Barnes said with a smile while hugging the woman close. Neither of them seemed the hugging type to Steve, which piqued his curiosity. How close did spies have to be before they got to that physical contact stage?

Both pulled back, neither with a knife in their back, so Steve marked this woman as a trusted friend of Barnes’. That didn’t so much to help the shiver that ran down Steve’s spine when the woman looked at him again, cocked an eyebrow and then turned questioning eyes on Barnes.

Steve still wasn’t too sure how Barnes had managed to get the word out to this woman that he wanted to meet. He clocked it up to some super-secret spy radar or something just as inexplainable. Neither of them had left the old building during the day, and as far as Steve was aware, Barnes wasn’t carrying a radio in his back pocket. However contact had been made was clearly on a need-to-know basis, and Barnes obviously didn’t consider Steve in that high regard.

With their self-imposed lockdown, they’d spent the day nursing their wounds and generally getting frustrated with each other. Steve had been in a lot of unideal situations in his life, but being stuck in a crumbling building with someone as prickly as The Winter Soldier certainly topped the cake.

They’d argued over everything. Steve had wanted to retrieve his stuff from the hotel, but Barnes had decided that was obviously stupid. Clearly, someone was watching Steve, and going back there was a dumb idea. When Steve really thought about it, he did agree, but that didn’t make the idea of leaving all his things seem any easier.

The next issue that had them butting heads was where they were going to go once out of Romania. Steve had had a map in his room, but in all that had gone down, he couldn’t remember any of the complicated Russian place names. 

He’d tried drawing a vague map in the dust. Barnes had smudged it out saying that it looked nothing like the Soviet Union, only, when Barnes had drawn his own version, Steve was left scratching his head and indicating large areas with an explanation of, “I think it was near here somewhere.”

Eventually, they’d managed to agree on the location of the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic – and agree meant that Steve stopped questioning Barnes’ knowledge and simply believed him – and that it would be the best bet as a point of entry into the Soviet Union.

After that, the rest of the time had passed by in awkward, mostly sullen silence. 

Barnes had spent his time chain-smoking from a crushed packet he’d liberated from a pocket in his jacket, and something about watching the spy suck back a broken cigarette was strangely fascinating. 

When Barnes finally decided it was time to move out, Steve wasn’t sure if it was because he’d smoked himself dry, or if it was time to go meet his contact. 

Clearly, it was a bit of both. 

Steve stood silently to the side as Barnes and the woman talked, rapidly firing off at each other in a language he didn’t understand. At least this time he was one hundred percent sure that it was Russian. It was harsher than Romanian, lacking the musical lilts and relying more on cruel sounding vowels and thick-tongued pauses. Words were highlighted with flicks of a hand or a more dramatic throw of an arm, and while Steve found it impossible to tell what was going on, he felt like he was witnessing a simmered argument. The type that tended to happen between siblings or close friends; more an expression of idiocy than a heated exchange. Steve had been on the receiving end of such words and gestures too many times to count, especially when Sam was involved. Sam, though, had never been able to make Steve feel as uncomfortable as he did when the redheaded woman glanced his way again.

“If you and _Captain fucking America_ here want to get to the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic, then you’ll have to go by sea.” Steve almost missed the English, only catching onto the switch in language at the last moment and far too late to take offence at the slur.

Steve tried to think of the map he and Barnes had looked at. The smuggler was right; cutting across the Black Sea did seem like the most direct route, and it kept them out of the Soviet Union far longer than if they skirted around to the north. Heading south through The People's Republic of Bulgaria and then Turkey would likely add months to their expedition, not to mention bring on a world of other diplomatic difficulties and border crossings. 

“Get to Constanța,” the woman finally sighed. She didn’t seem overly happy to be making plans. “Twenty-two hundred hours; two days from now.” Steve watched as her eyes flicked over Barnes and her lips pursed together. It could have been a thoughtful expression, but Steve was sure he could see pain behind the façade. “You know the place.”

She left as silently as she’d appeared, but not before once again giving Steve that unsettling glare. 

Barnes seemed intent on watching her go before making his own move. Steve filled the silence with the question that had been gnawing at the back of his mind.

“You trust her?” Steve asked.

Barnes fixed him with a weathered look, clearly unimpressed.

“More than I trust _you_ ,” he pointed out tartly.

That shut Steve up, and he wisely said no more as he followed Barnes in the opposite direction to their shady contact.

*****

**Part VIII Preview:**

“Are you sure that’s even a real car?” Steve asked. The look that crossed Barnes’ face was a pretty typical one. It came when Barnes was irritated at him, and if it wasn’t for Barnes’ general blank-slate expression, Steve would have assumed that _this_ was his resting face. Steve had seen it far too many times already.

“It’s a Soviet staple,” Barnes sighed while opening the boot and tossing his bag into the back. When he closed the trunk the whole car rattled, the springs of its suspension making it rock like a ship. “It won’t raise suspicion.”

“Yeah. But. I don’t even think we’ll both fit.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fun History Fact:** The bit where they’re arguing over a map is important! The Soviet Union paid cartographers to create fake maps of the USSR, and it wasn’t until 1988 that the public was any wiser about it. The CIA claimed to have accurate maps that they made themselves but… well, we can’t really trust them all that much either. 
> 
> So all map issues (and there are one of two as the fic goes on, and my beta picked this out as something that bothered her; they should be able to read maps) is a tribute to that. Steve’s old map was probably a CIA version; Barnes’ map would be a public version; both are probably wrong in some way or another. 
> 
> I did toy with the idea of Barnes knowing about this, but thought it was more fun this way. Plus, I didn’t want to use him as exposition-man for everything USSR related. Information like this wouldn’t have been on Steve’s need to know list, as he was meant to go in with a task force who would have known all this information. 
> 
> \---- 
> 
> Not gonna lie; this was a really hard chapter to do and I was stuck on it for ages. Finding that balance between them and working out how to convince Bucky to help was just… a nightmare. 
> 
> On the flipside, Nat came so easily into the story, and I love her! Did you like the 'Captain America' reference?! 
> 
> As always, I love to hear from you guys! Now that Bucky is being more verbal, do you feel sorry for Steve, or are you cheering Bucky on?


	9. Part VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of my chapters/scenes have nicknames, especially now that we’re getting into the meat of the story. Upcoming sections include ‘The Top Gear Special’ and the ‘Tomb Raiding Shitshow’. 
> 
> So, looking at the fic that way, I guess this chapter could be considered the 'Buddy Cop Drama'. 😉 
> 
> Also, this chapter is a love letter to Bucharest. I fucking love that city. If you’re interested, I have a Grungy Photography set [here @ flickr](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185587556@N03/albums/72157711846544496) or [here](http://minkawrites.com/index.php/grungy-bucharest/) showing some of Bucharest. Obviously, I wasn’t around when this fic was set, and these were taken just last year, but this collection gives a good feeling of the streets that Steve and Bucky are walking through.

**Part VIII**

There were a few things that Steve had never thought he’d be privy to. Mythical scavenger hunts and espionage were undoubtedly right up there, along with keeping bigoted company or being a part of any further wars. While he had thankfully avoided the latter two, the first seemed to be setting the trend.

Another of those things was being an accomplice to petty crime.

“Are you done yet?” Steve hissed into the shadows of the parking lot. He didn’t get a response, though he probably should have expected that. Barnes wasn’t the chattiest of people at the best of times, but especially not when he was concentrating. Or maiming people. Or stealing things. Or at all, really. For all the languages his companion spoke, Barnes seemed content on voicing none of them out loud.

Steve shrugged deeper into his jacket and let his eyes flick over the gloomy parking lot again. As expected, nothing moved or stirred. Barnes was almost silent in his work behind Steve, and, honestly, if anyone was prowling around at three in the morning, then Steve was sure that they’d be just as determined to give Steve and Barnes a wide berth.

Their crime spree of an evening – as Steve was starting to think of it – had begun in the decent hours of dusk when Barnes had deftly lifted two take-away gyros off a shop counter while they’d slinked their way through Old Town. Steve still didn’t know how he felt about eating stolen food that someone else had paid for, but even he couldn’t have denied that he was starving and that it had been delicious.

The more Steve saw of Bucharest, the more he found to love. The city had a charming if troubled appeal. Neo-Baroque architecture complimented the uneven stones of the Old Town streets, while across the road, concrete apartment blocks marched like Soviet soldiers for as far as the eye could see. Steve was just as likely to spot a charming smoking bar down a side alley as he was a gypsy, or someone being robbed in the shadows none of the streetlights could chase away.

It was a city of contrasts, as wild and unpredictable as the man who walked at Steve’s side.

Barnes and the city seemed to be as one together. There wasn’t a street that Barnes didn’t confidently walk down or a juncture where he had to think twice about which way to turn. He blended in with the sort of ease that marked him as an expert in his field and gave justification to the thick folder that had outlined his previous missions. Barnes neither stood out nor drew attention and yet he never melded into the shadows or came across as someone with something to hide either.

He moved like there was nowhere else he belonged, and the city and its people responded to him, all but welcoming him into its embrace.

Barnes would occasionally pause to peer into a window or grin and then whistle at a pair of girls with ostentatious curls and pink lips. They swooned and giggled and blushed and watched Barnes as he went by, adding to his persona of a young man out for a night of carousing and romance. There was always a cigarette dangling from his mouth, or held between fingers of a hand that gestured wildly as he spoke to those around him. 

Steve stood awkwardly at his side, stooped and leaning on one leg. He’d never been good with flirting and talking to ladies, and his preferences didn’t tend to push him that way often. But now? Well, he’d never felt like the awkward, ugly friend as much as he did currently.

Of course, Barnes’ idea of a disguise didn’t help Steve in any way either. At the start of the evening, Barnes had none too gently yanked a ratty cap onto Steve’s head and almost strangled him with a scarf that smelled like piss and cigarette smoke.

“How’s the knee?” Barnes had asked, and it had taken a moment for Steve to put the words together, remembering the brutal way Barnes had floored him in the ring two nights past.

“Good. Better,” Steve had replied, the suspicion evident in his voice.

Clearly, he was getting better at predicting Barnes’ temperaments, as no sooner had the words left Steve’s mouth, then Barnes was kicking him viciously again.

“I’m not walking around with an American flag beside me,” Barnes grunted as Steve had gasped. “The pain. Use it. Limp.” Another blow came to the back of Steve’s shoulders. It didn’t hurt, but it was enough to push him forward. “Stoop. Hide your height. Keep your head down and for the love of God, don’t speak. I want nothing stupid and American coming out of your mouth. Understood?”

Steve had been too busy rubbing his abused knee to verbally answer which, in hindsight, he was sure had been the right decision.

So, while Barnes glided through the city like he fucking owned it, Steve had hobbled alongside. He played the limp up as instructed, using the slight throb as a guideline to make the injury look real, and he kept his head low with his chin buried in the loops of the scarf. Steve had tried adding in more of a hunch and an expression that gave him an underbite, but Barnes had quickly smacked him upside the head and told Steve that this wasn’t meant to be an audition for the Hunchback of Notre Dame. 

Beside him, Barnes was someone else entirely. There were no traces of the deadly, fluid grace that made up the Winter Soldier or, more so, Vanya. His hair was pulled back into his trademark messy knot, and he’d splashed out on some colour in the way of his blue denim jacket. He occasionally turned his ankle on the broken stones of the street, he sniffed loudly and coughed around a cigarette in a way that made Steve flinch. He even wore his wounds easily, the bandage over his temple somehow looking more like a fashion statement. 

Steve preferred him in black, and while he positively wasn’t thinking about such trivial things right now, he also preferred Barnes with his hair down. Everything else was clearly a play to blend in, so Steve disregarded the little quirks.

Barnes had taken them out of Old Town and through the dirty tunnels of the underground. They weaved between subway stations, coming up at seeming random points on opposite sides of main roads, before going down again. They didn’t talk – there was no way that Barnes was going to risk speaking English out loud – and Steve bit his tongue every time he wanted to ask a question. Where were they going? Where the hell were they? Didn’t they just pass that building an hour ago?

Steve still wasn’t sure what the purpose of their evening walk had been. Of course, he understood scouting a location one was about to conduct crime in, but Barnes had really taken them the long way around only to end up in a car park in the crumbling Jewish Quarter. 

_Saying goodbye_ , Steve’s mind had offered. Maybe Barnes had taken them on the epic walk as a way of saying goodbye to the city he loved. After all, they were here to steal a car and start their drive to the town of Constanța. After that, it was across the Black Sea and into the USSR. While Steve wasn’t sure how Barnes felt about the whole thing, Steve himself was nervous. He could only imagine that Barnes felt the same way, maybe even more so knowing what he was returning to.

His nerves only seemed to get worse the longer he stood there playing the part of lookout while Barnes worked at hotwiring his chosen vehicle. Steve knew his way around a jeep and a handful of other personnel carriers as well as any soldier, but civilian cars were a different ball game. Besides, Steve had been taught to look for damage and how to perform roadside mechanics, not how to break in and hotwire a car, let alone a Soviet Trabant.

After what felt like an eternity, Barnes cleared his throat, and Steve heard the slightest sound that suggested the spy was ready.

Abandoning his watch, Steve turned around and instantly frowned. Barnes indicated to the tiny car with both hands, the gesture reminding Steve of a magician presenting their latest and greatest trick. It was about the most personality – other than murderous – that Barnes had shown, and Steve couldn’t help but smile.

That was until he really took in the details of the car.

“Are you sure that’s even a real car?” Steve asked. The look that crossed Barnes’ face was a pretty typical one. It came when Barnes was irritated at him, and if it wasn’t for Barnes’ general blank-slate expression, Steve would have assumed that _this_ was his resting face. Steve had seen it far too many times already.

“It’s a Soviet staple,” Barnes sighed while opening the boot and tossing his bag into the back. When he closed the trunk the whole car rattled, the springs of its suspension making it rock like a ship. “It won’t raise suspicion.”

“Yeah. But. I don’t even think we’ll both fit.” Steve edged closer, his eyes skimming over what looked like thin metal and shoddy plastic, and a roof height that barely reached his elbow.

That expression crept back onto Barnes’ face – the one that said he was done with this conversation – and instead of hitting Steve with facts about family cars in the Soviet regime, Steve was subjected to a different form of rationalization.

“If you’ve got an alternative to shooting our way out of a cattle class train _when_ someone asks for your papers – because they will – then please, let me know.” Barnes had rationed.

Steve didn’t, so when Barnes told him, “Get in the fucking car, Rogers,” he wisely did as he was told. 

The drive out of Bucharest was uneventful. Barnes drove, of course, and Steve did his best not to gawk out the window like a tourist. It was fascinating watching the elaborate French-style buildings at the heart of town bleed out into Soviet blocks and, after that, slums. It also offered fresh air, as Barnes had replenished his supply of Lucky Strikes and seemed intent to chain-smoke the whole way to Constanța.

His companion did little to describe the scene outside the window, so Steve’s mind was left to wonder and imagine what life would be like on these streets. In a way, it made Barnes’ aliases and personas easier to understand. The spy had created his covers from the shattered lives of people just like the ones scuffing the dirt as the sun rose over their hovels.

By mid-morning, they were out of the traffic and on the highway for the coast. Barnes had reasoned that there was no need to take dodgy backroads, and to do so would only risk more attention. They’d made some crazy loops and sat parked in some weird spots in the early hours of the morning just in case anyone was savvy enough to have picked up their trail, but after a few hours, Barnes had deemed it safe enough to hit the highway. 

It wasn’t for the first time that Steve was thankful Barnes had agreed to this. While it was blindingly obvious that Steve wouldn’t have even made it far enough to get a car and try to get out of Bucharest, he never would have thought of covering his tracks the way Barnes did.

The trip passed by in silence. Steve hadn’t really known anything to say, and it wasn’t like Barnes was all that forthright with friendly conversation. On occasion, Steve had almost complained about being squished and cramped, but he’d remembered how Barnes had taken his earlier criticism of the car and thought better of it.

Eventually, though, curiosity got the better of Steve, and he summoned up the courage to ask Barnes about their evening.

“Were you saying goodbye?” It wasn’t until Barnes frowned and raised an eyebrow that Steve realised how ambiguous that sounded. “Today. Last night,” he corrected, “with the walk. Was it your way of saying goodbye to the city?”

For a moment, Steve was sure that Barnes wasn’t going to answer. Maybe he’d struck a nerve, or Barnes was annoyed at being read so easily. Finally, when Barnes did speak, the words were laced with that sassy tone that Steve was starting to associate with Barnes’ exasperated expression.

“Sorry to burst your precious sentimental bubble, Rogers, but it wasn’t like that.”

“Oh. Okay. I just-” 

“I was sending a message,” Barnes explained in a way that made even less sense than Steve’s guess. “And we were waiting for the answer.”

Steve’s mind boggled. He hadn’t seen Barnes interact with anyone other than a few pretty girls and to snarl at what was clearly a Romani beggar who’d grabbed at Barnes' leg pleadingly. It made sense, of course, that there would have been more of Barnes’ contacts and friends throughout the city. The body count in the Red Door had been high, but an operation like the Bucharest resistance had to have numbers at least worthy of three digits. Steve was also sure that there’d never be a reason to have every single member in the one room together.

Their walk had been an open call, and while Steve wouldn’t have known what to look for, Barnes would have been able to pick out familiar faces or decode unlikely messages as they went.

“Everyone’s dead.” Barnes didn’t blink. Didn’t react in any way to the words he said. The car maintained a steady sixty-five on the highway. No show of emotion or twist of sentiment. “No one answered, so there’s no one left.”

Not for the first time, Steve felt his heart sink and his stomach lurch into his throat. The sheer magnitude of Barnes’ words weighed heavily on his shoulders, hunching him even further over in the small space.

Whoever was after Barnes – whether Steve had led them to him or not – wasn’t messing around.

*****

Steve had seen a lot of beautiful places in his lifetime. Vietnam, when people weren’t trying to kill him, was stunning. He’d never forget the sunsets from the chopper or the wash of white sands and crystal blue waters of the coast. Okinawa was just as impressive, and Steve had always enjoyed his furloughs at Camp Foster. He’d longed for his pencils or some paint, so he could capture the beauty of unusual Japanese landscapes. 

Even Brooklyn, while not classically awe-inspiring, came with the sort of beauty that only home could. 

Constanța, he assumed, would be another one of those places. The type where he’d dream of sitting and sketching until the light faded, and then breathing in the scent of the sea as colours painted a sky ready for the night.

That was if they actually went into town.

Barnes was adamant that they didn’t. The Soviet presence was too strong, he said, and there was a high chance that he’d run into people he wished didn’t know him. That was about as cryptic as it was horrifying, and so Steve hadn’t pressed the point.

It did, however, mean a few more hours camped out in their shitty little car, parked halfway down a driveway off the highway. As far as hideouts went, it was pretty shocking, and this time it didn’t take Steve long to ask questions.

Barnes had rationalised the location in the following ways. One, it was a private road, so the only people who’d come driving down it would either be the owners, or other shady people with just as much to hide. Two, it had been raining recently, but there were no tracks in the mud or on the bitumen of the highway, meaning that the driveway wasn’t in frequent use. A lot of people in this area, Barnes had said, worked on the rigs and boats, which meant that they could be away from home for vast periods. Given the location and the shabbiness of the overall driveway, Barnes had made a safe assumption that this was one such place.

And this was all before he’d flicked the indicator and turned off the almost blind curve of the highway.

Thankfully they’d stopped for food along the way, and while Barnes had insisted that Steve keep his American ass in the car, he’d at least been kind enough to bring back a feast large enough for the two of them. Barnes could eat – almost as much as Steve did – and Steve found something about that oddly endearing.

As night slowly fell over the little world they’d created in the car, Barnes seemed to come more alive. He’d dozed for a little while and considering that Steve had nodded off on the drive a few times, he took it upon himself to stay awake and keep watch. It was tough to remember, but Barnes had been through more hardships in the last two days than Steve could count. He deserved the rest. Steve had kept as quiet and still as possible and had done his best not to watch Barnes as he slept. There was something inherently attractive about the way Barnes snored softly, and the way his lips parted enough to see a sliver of white teeth.

As much as Steve wanted Barnes to sleep, he’d been glad when the other man had woken up. It took away the temptation to brush the stray locks of hair out of his eyes, or to try and find something to use as a makeshift blanket to cover him.

Once Barnes was awake, he was _awake_ ; functioning at one hundred per cent and ready to go. They pulled out of their driveway sanctuary and back into the highway. There were still enough cars on the road not to arouse suspicion, and it only took another quarter of an hour for them to reach the outskirts of the city. Signs pointed to the docks and Steve could see large metal cranes marring the inky blackness of the sea sky.

They didn’t head straight there though, and Barnes pulled them casually into a parking lot next to the central train station. He’d pulled a bottle of window cleaner out of his grocery bag and threw a cloth over to Steve.

“Wipe everything,” he instructed before he took his own chemical-dampened cloth and went to work on the steering wheel, “Not just what you think you’ve touched, but _everything_.”

Steve did as instructed, and as they climbed out of the comically small car, they both wiped down seat buckles and door handles. Barnes used his hip to slam his door closed, and Steve did the same. The process repeated at the boot with Barnes’ elbow nudging the trunk closed after he’d retrieved his belongings. Steve pulled the old hat back into his head and wrapped the scarf around his neck without instruction and maybe, just maybe, he saw the hint of a smile on Barnes’ lips.

It was easy to stoop and not walk like a military-trained man after so long cramped in the car, and together, the two of them made their way to the train station.

Steve had no clue where they were going, and he’d learnt not to ask questions, especially in public, so he simply fell into pace with the Winter Soldier and let the enigmatic man lead the way.

They didn’t buy a ticket but waltzed into the station and crisscrossed the dirty platforms before taking a different exit out. It brought them up on the other side of the network of tracks, and from there, they walked side by side down streets of low built houses and industrial buildings. When Barnes glanced over his shoulder before ducking through a hole in a wire fence, Steve quickly did the same, blending with Barnes in the shadows.

One shady fence led to another before they were creeping around the side of an old warehouse. It looked like it had seen better days, but so did all the buildings in the area – the whole country, even – so Steve paid it no attention and did his best to mind his footing. While this was still miles out of his element, it felt a little closer to home, and a little more in his league. Blending into a foreign city was something he was sure he’d never be good at, but creeping through the dark and not making noise? Well, that had been hammered into his skillset years ago.

Barnes seemed to know exactly where he was going, and after the moments of creeping, he had them shimmying between two support beams, exposed to the weather thanks to the crumbling brickwork.

Inside was no less sinister than out; if anything, Steve thought it was even worse. The only light came from the holes in the ceiling. Patches of sheeting and steel hung from the eaves, swinging in a deadly fashion. The floor was destroyed, the concrete split and cracked and lifting around patches of weeds and roots.

“You made it,” a familiar voice said from the gloom. Steve didn’t jump, but his hand did twitch in the direction of where his sidearm should have been.

“Did you expect me not too?” Barnes asked as Natasha, the smuggler they’d met in Bucharest, stepped into the shoddy light. She smiled, and Steve did his best to smile back even as she sent a narrow-eyed frown in his direction.

“No. But I didn’t have money on him.”

“I’m hard to get rid of,” Steve sassed back. It had honestly come out before he’d thought better of it, and the way that both Barnes and Natasha chuckled gave him the impression that they didn’t agree.

After that, it was once again a jumble of Russian that Steve would never understand, and maybe he was paranoid, but he felt like he was the base of a lot of the conversation. He tried not to think about all the little things; the hints of danger and the fact that he’d followed a relative stranger with a history of playing the part of a double agent into a shady back-dock warehouse.

If they wanted to kill him, now would be a perfect time. Steve wasn’t even armed.

“English,” Barnes finally said with a sigh. “For the linguistically challenged of us all.” Steve would have thanked him if it hadn’t come as such an underhanded insult. It turned out that Barnes was really good at dishing those out.

“What’s the plan, Nat?” Barnes asked. He had a shiftiness about him that Steve had never seen before. A restless way that he moved from one foot to the other, his fingers tightening, then relaxing, their grip in the shoulder strap of his backpack.

“ _You’re_ not going to like it,” Natasha said, and Steve didn’t miss the inflection of her tone as she looked at Barnes.

For the briefest of moments, Barnes looked unsettled; uncomfortable and like he was about to bolt. Steve wondered what was going through his mind and, more importantly, what could possibly make the infamous Winter Soldier publicly show weakness.

The moment was over almost as soon as it had started, and Barnes’ eyes quickly hardened from haunted to their usually steely resolve in a matter of seconds.

“I don’t like many things,” he joked.

Natasha nodded, her lips pressing together, and her head cocking to the side slightly.

“You should try and change that,” she jibed. “Can’t hate everything forever.”

Steve was so tempted to say something. To point out that if anyone could hold a lifelong grudge, it would be Barnes. After all, he’d been on the receiving end of it for days now, and Steve was sure that it wasn’t going to wane anytime soon.

Barnes took it in his stride though, chuckling darkly and shrugging. The backpack he carried clanked in a way that sounded suspiciously like metal and cardboard. Guns and ammo, Steve guessed.

Natasha said something before sighing and rolling her eyes. “Come on out back.” The way she said it made Steve feel like she’d repeated herself, and he wished he’d paid more attention to the Russian. Not that ‘Come on out back’ would ever be a phrase that he’d need to use, but he did want to try and pick up at least some basics. It would no doubt make the journey easier.

He followed Barnes, who followed Natasha, through the old warehouse and through a door that looked like it was one sneeze from falling off its hinges.

Stepping under the rotting frame was like walking into another world. It was the light that hit Steve first, then the cold. After that came the smell. He grimaced, his nose screwing up at the sticky sweetness of dead meat. He spied an open refrigerator container at the end of a truck galley and could see hunks of meat hanging from the ceiling. A butcher, Steve’s mind supplied, even as his eyes moved further around the room.

It was exactly how he expected a butcher’s warehouse to look. Surprisingly sterile and clean, with aprons and knives on the wall, half a pig on a chopping block and a corpse on a gurney in the corner.

“What the fuck!?” Steve exclaimed after a split-second double take. He went from casual to ready in an instant as his training kicked it. Jumping back and lifting his arms defensively, Steve’s eyes calculated the scene; the closest weapon would be a meat hook, and he figured he had a fifty-fifty chance of getting to one before Barnes put him on his ass.

“You stab ‘em, we weigh and dump ‘em,” Natasha laughed, apparently unaffected by the scene or Steve’s reaction.

“Relax, _America_ ,” Barnes crooned. He moved, but not in the way that Steve was expecting. He dropped his hands from the strap of his backpack and held them up; open and nonthreatening. Barnes jerked his head towards the corpse. “Bad guy,” Barnes said as if that explained everything. Off to his side, Natasha did that thing where she both nodded and shrugged at the same time, neither confirming nor denying anything.

It didn’t make Steve feel any better, or any less on edge.

“Natasha excels at body disposal.” Barnes took further pity on him and elaborated before Natasha took over.

“My business is mostly above board. Import; export, all signed and stamped with the Soviet seal of approval. But,” she paused as if the dramatic tone was going to make Steve see things her way. “There’s a lot of open water between Constanța and the motherland, and sometimes my friends find themselves with some dead weight that needs to disappear.” She motioned to the body on the table before wiggling her fingers in his direction. “Or some living weight that needs to get from point A to point B.”

Steve gulped and tried to relax his stance. It didn’t really work, but another deep breath, as well as the realization that he was already beyond the point of no return, helped him to square away against the alien world he’d found himself.

“You probably should have warned him,” Natasha mused.

Barnes, for his part, smiled the darkest grin Steve had ever seen. “Totally slipped my mind,” he said with a sardonic wink. “Opps.”

In the short space of time that Steve had known him, he’d wanted to do a lot to Barnes; Vanya; The Winter Soldier; whatever. Steve had wanted to take him home, to help him and bring him in from the cold. He’d wanted to talk to him, wanted to ask him a million questions. Steve had also wanted to touch him, to brush hair out of his eyes and wrap him in blankets and tell him that everything would be alright. That was a lot of base impulses that he’d battled down, especially for such a short period of time.

But now, Steve really just wanted to punch him right in his smug face. There’d be something so satisfying in that action. Barnes could take it as well. It wasn’t like one punch would kill him, but damn would it make Steve feel better. The fact that Barnes would probably turn around and put him straight on his ass didn’t really promise a happy end, but even then, Steve was sure that it would be worth it.

“Anyway,” Natasha sighed, “While I love discussing the finer parts of my business, it’s time to get you boys settled.”

Steve wasn’t so sure that settled would ever be an appropriate word for what was about to happen, and his eyes darted to the body again.

“Steve,” Barnes said, his head inclining to follow. It was the first time that Barnes had used his first name, and it sent Steve mentally reeling. Like a schoolboy with a crush, he could only follow Barnes, past the corpse and further into the building.

Natasha led them to another shipping crate, and when she pulled open the doors, Steve steeled himself for the worst. More bodies. More cold. Maybe she planned to keep them in a fridge the entire time. That would be hell, and Steve sure as fuck wasn’t dressed for that.

When the door opened, Steve breathed a sigh of relief. It was just a regular container, the inside already stocked with boxes and crates strapped to the sides and ceiling to keep them immobile. It left a small, zigzagged pathway between the contents.

“It’ll be sealed up for the journey. I can’t risk either of you on deck,” Natasha explained as she led the way, squeezing herself between the gaps. Barnes didn’t instantly follow, so Steve took the lead and followed suit, finding the gap a great deal tighter than their host did. There was a larger spot towards the middle where the boxes weren’t as tightly stacked, and Natasha sidled up to one wooden crate and pulled on a packing strap. The side fell away, revealing a nest of blankets and what looked like some canned food, bread and water.

“There’ll be times when you’ll have to both stay in here. Customs checks and the like, but for the most part, you can use the whole container to move around and stretch as long as you’re quiet. Not all of the crew are privy to the _finer_ details of our operation. Just keep all rubbish and clothes and whatever in the crate, and the door closed when I tell you.” Her foot kicked out at another smaller wooden box on the opposite side, and the front fell to reveal plastic, lidded paint buckets. “Your five-star lavatory,” she offered. “Put the lid back down, boys, and mind your aim.”

Steve wasn’t so sure about the five-star rating of the quarters, and he was pretty sure he’d had better lodgings even in Vietnam, but he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Other than the initial shock of the corpse outside, he understood that Natasha was doing them a brave solid. Besides, when it came to illegal border crossings into the Soviet Union, Steve knew that this probably was luxury.

It wasn’t until Steve turned that he noticed Barnes. He’d obviously known that the spy had followed him in and was right at his back, but it was the look on Barnes’ face that he hadn’t been expecting. He was ashen with his lips pressed into a fine line, his eyes darting from the crate to the general clutter of the container.

“Could you have found anything smaller?” Barnes muttered.

This time it was Natasha’s turn to snark. “I thought you’d find it homely. But I can get you a body-bag if you’d prefer.”

Steve was sure he was missing a story there, even as his mind rummaged for scraps of information. He did remember that file on Barnes – he’d never forget it – and the photo of him sick and ghastly in a tiny cell, and after that, it made sense. Of course, Barnes didn’t like small spaces.

Natasha turned on a battery-run outdoor lamp, washing the cramped space with light. “There’s a few more in the crate,” she supplied, “just make sure they’re off any time we’re stationary. Light carries in the dark, and I don’t want any customs officers opening suspicious boxes. Neither do you.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” Steve said.

Natasha grinned again and winked. “Don’t thank me yet. You still have to survive two days with him.”

And with that, she moved out of the shipping container and closed the door behind her. Steve shuddered slightly as he heard the handles wrenched closed, officially locking them inside.

*****

**Part IX Preview:**

As it turned out, spending upwards of fifty hours in a shipping container with The Winter Soldier wasn’t what Steve would call either entertaining or relaxing. There was something haunting in the way that Barnes just sat, and while Barnes was the picture of perfect stillness, it left Steve oddly on edge and jittery. Barnes looked like the sort of man that was always plotting something, and while there was a shaky alliance between them, Steve also wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up to a hand over his mouth and a knife in his side.

Or not to wake up at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally forgot that it was Thursday, hence why this is a little later than usual. I mean… what even are days now? I did my weekly food foraging today, and honestly… it was really fucking boring. I was even able to casually just buy some toilet paper without being shanked by anyone in a skull print mask or Mad Max chased afterwards. Say what you will about Greece’s issues, but they have this virus isolation thing, with social distancing and proper supplies down to a fine art. 
> 
> Wow. I can’t believe how quickly this is progressing! We’re officially shifting away from the Cold War spy concept and more into the treasure hunting/tomb raiding side of things. 
> 
> Are you excited? I know I am! 
> 
> Yes, Nat was totally pulling a ‘You stab ‘em, we slab ‘em’ joke! 
> 
> And hot damn! Can’t you just picture Bucky being a suave mofo out to break hearts during a night of fun in a funky, romantic old town? 
> 
> Anyway. How much do we all want a Steve and Bucky Buddy Cop plot now? Part Rush Hour, part Bad Boys… it would a-a-a-amazing! Someone should write it for me *looks at you all very threateningly* If you’re prepared to do that, then at least entertain me with your wonderful ideas and post chapter musings in the comments!


	10. Part IX

Part IX

* * *

Mission Report: 22nd December 1981

1750 hours

**Vienna International Centre**

48°14′05″N 16°25′01″E

Vienna, Austria

File: 6108’46N

Subject: Captain Steven Grant Rogers

* * *

“What more can you tell us about this… Natasha,” Sitwell asked. Steve had known that it was coming. What sort of an agent would Sitwell be if he didn’t zero in on any potential contacts?

“Nothing,” Steve said, maybe a little too quickly.

“Nothing?” Sitwell clearly didn’t buy it.

Shady as Natasha had been, Barnes had trusted her, and she’d done them right. The crossing to Georgia had been uneventful, and she’d dropped them as close to where they wanted to be as she could manage.

She’d helped them, and Steve knew that she’d helped Barnes when he’d needed her the most. Maybe she danced the line between right and wrong, but it was evident that she had a heart and that it was mostly in the right place. Without her, Steve and Barnes never would have made it out of Romania and, looking at the larger picture, none of what Steve had achieved would have been possible. Barnes was such an integral part of his whole plan and mission, and it was Natasha who’d somehow seen him out of Soviet hands and into the relative safety of Romania years ago. Without her and the role she’d played in Barnes’ escape, Steve wouldn’t be sitting here today; not with the knowledge he had, at least.

Someone like Natasha was hidden because she didn’t want to be known, and as far as Steve was concerned, that was a good enough reason to keep her out of the light.

“There’s nothing more to tell,” Steve said. Sure, he felt like sticking it to the man and telling them that he wouldn’t divulge any further secrets, but the truth of the matter was that all he had was a name and the idea of a shady warehouse in Constanta to go by. Even if he’d wanted to give Sitwell a detailed look into the smuggler – which he certainly did not want to do – then Steve wouldn’t have been able to.

“I’m sure you noticed something,” Sitwell pressed. “Did Barnes talk about her more? Or mention a family name?”

“No.”

“What about any other connections. Political? Is she KGB?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Steve said flatly.

“You wouldn’t know. Yet you trusted this woman with your life,” Sitwell mused. “Forgive me, but for a man with your history, I find it unbelievable that you put yourself into her hands without questioning further. Securing passage into the Soviet Union isn’t a child’s game; there’s a lot at risk when attempting something like that.”

“I didn’t,” Steve said simply. He liked the way it made Sitwell frown and the way the agent glanced towards the mirrored glass window in the room as if searching for backup.

“I’m sorry?”

“I didn’t put myself into her hands. Or trust her,” Steve reasoned. “I trusted Barnes and chose to follow him. He trusted her, and as far as I’m concerned, it was the right call. She got us where we needed to be. Slipped right in without any hassle.”

“Is there anything you can tell me about the ship?” Sitwell tried again, and this time, Steve didn’t bother to hide his irritation at the constant press. He crossed his arms over his chest and slumped in his chair with a sigh, his eyes flicking from Sitwell over to the two-way glass window. He glared at it too.

“What part of being locked inside a container didn’t you understand?” Steve asked rhetorically. “It was a boat, and it was a dark, cramped container, and Barnes isn’t the best conversationalist. As for Natasha,” he added. “She was… Russian. At least I think. Unknown accent. About yay high,” he said with a dismissive wave, “and had an attitude that complimented Barnes’ frighteningly well.”

There. That gave the pushy agent something while still giving him nothing at all.

“Now,” Steve huffed. He played the role of beaten, exhausted soldier and took a moment to reach for his water while slowly blinking his eyes as if morbidly tired. “Do you want me to continue, or not?”

******

Any hope Steve held of him and Barnes bonding during their time in the container had been quickly lost.

Sam had always accused Steve of being an introvert. Steve could mope for hours and had the habit of internalising all of his thoughts.

Barnes, Steve quickly found out, could give Steve a run for his money.

The Romanian was sullen and quiet during the time on the ship. Hours stretched without so much as a physical twitch, let alone a word being said. Steve assumed that it was all part of Barnes’ old sniper training. They hadn’t had much need for snipers in the jungles of Vietnam, but Steve had known one or two in his time. Closed off and alarmingly calm, they all seemed to have the ability to sit still as a statue for hours and hours on end.

Steve put it down to survival instincts. Some of the places professional snipers ended up were worse than anything Steve had seen, and any sort of movement would be likely to give them away.

So it was that mixed with the horrors of being imprisoned for so long that kept Barnes distant.

As it turned out, spending upwards of fifty hours in a shipping container with The Winter Soldier wasn’t what Steve would call either entertaining or relaxing. There was something haunting in the way that Barnes just sat, and while Barnes was the picture of perfect stillness, it left Steve oddly on edge and jittery. Barnes looked like the sort of man that was always plotting something, and while there was a shaky alliance between them, Steve also wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up to a hand over his mouth and a knife in his side.

Or not to wake up at all.

The boat rocked and rolled with the waves, further adding to Steve’s unease. He’d never been fantastic on boats. Not so bad to warrant a declaration of seasickness, but enough that he felt his stomach unsettle with each rise and fall of the bow. 

Barnes seemed to have an inherent understanding of what was going on outside their container. Steve would have been none the wiser about when the boat was moving versus when it was stopped but Barnes always seemed to know. He wouldn’t say anything. He’d just jut his chin towards the crate before shuffling back inside and pulling the door closed on the two of them.

They were always the worst times. Sitting in the small, dark space, Steve didn’t know what he feared more. Discovery, or the way that Barnes didn’t even seem to breathe in the darkness. 

Their ankles would have knotted together if Barnes hadn’t always sat with his knees up and his arms braced around his legs.

When their ship cut across the waves, Steve did his best to give Barnes his space. The first time they’d both ventured out into the container had been strange and awkward, full of gangly cramped limbs and fumbling in the dark. Barnes had been quick to light the lamp, though he seemed equally as jumpy at the shadows it cast as he did with the blank darkness. 

Eventually, Barnes found a spot he seemed to like. Steve had honestly thought the spy had disappeared the first time Barnes had taken up the position, at least until he saw the shine of Barnes’ eyes up high. Steve had almost jumped clean out of his skin at the shock.

Somehow Barnes had managed to climb his way up over the various boxes and crates and had tucked himself neatly into the back corner of the shipping container. It was an odd spot, but he seemed more content there than anywhere, and Steve did his best to give the hidey-hole a wide berth during his restless pacing.

On the second day, Steve had woken to find Barnes in his usual nest, only this time his head was down, and his hands were busy. Steve couldn’t see what Barnes was doing, but he’d recognise that smell and the soft metallic sounds anywhere. Clearly, the spy’s backpack _had_ been filled with guns, and Barnes had figured that their stagnant, close-quarters were an excellent place to clean and oil the components.

Steve lost track of time, the hours in the small space suffocating and bleeding into each other. Sometimes he was sure that it had only been minutes since the last time he got frustrated and paced the small space available to them; other times he was sure it had been hours – days, even – but the rational side of his mind argued for logic.

His pacing must have been grating on Barnes’ nerves, because one minute the spy was up in his perch and the next, he was rummaging through the backpack he’d left in their hiding crate.

“Here,” Barnes said. It wasn’t the movement that startled Steve. It was the voice. After so long in the silence and Barnes’ track record of not being talkative at the best of times, it was a shock to hear the word.

Steve took the offered item with nervous hesitation. He half expected it to bite, or to explode or something just as dramatic.

Instead, he realised that Barnes had given him a map.

Grinning, Steve lowered himself down to the ground and spread out the vast amount of paper needed to document the Soviet Union. One side was an overall road map of the country with all the little towns marked down, while the reverse had a sprawling map of Moscow.

There was only one problem.

“I suppose this doesn’t come in English?” Steve asked. He knew right away that it was possibly the worst thing he could say, but he’d started to realise that he had minimal filter when Barnes was involved.

The spy sighed out loud, the sound clearly irritated and carrying all the fleeting weight of his patience.

“Seriously, Rogers?”

“I don’t read Russian,” Steve shrugged sheepishly. “I only know the phonetic English names.” He’d sort of just assumed that all maps would include English, though now he could understand the gravity of his error. Even the annexed states of the Soviet Union were taught Russian in school, sometimes even as their first language with their native own coming in as a second priority. No Romanian looked at a word in Cyrillic and asked for it in Roman letters; they didn’t need to.

Barnes looked like he was about to shoot Steve. Or maybe himself. There was clear irritation there as he dramatically threw himself onto a low box and rolled his hand in the air, indicating that Steve should continue.

“The first place. The City of the Dead; _Dargavs_ ,” he knew he’d pronounced that wrong, but he carried on, “Should be in this area somewhere.” Steve indicated a circle on the map that was probably a little too large if Barnes’ sigh was anything to go by.

“This was meant to keep _you_ occupied,” Barnes snarled while snatching the map and angling the light so he could read. He sounded like an angry father dealing with a restless child.

That, however, wasn’t what made Steve smile. Whether Barnes had noticed or not, the fact of the matter was – at least right now – they were working together as a team.

*****

Once Natasha had ushered them out of the shipping container in the middle of the night, Barnes had led the way through the unknown dock of Poti. Their smuggler friend had set them up in what Steve guessed was a safe house. It was an old, abandoned thing on the fringes of town, and if Steve was a betting man, he’d have put money on the guess that it had once been shelled.

Still, it was dry, at least in places, and Natasha had let them keep the blankets from the cargo ship. She’d also arranged further clothing to help them blend in, and a small stack of currency that Barnes had quickly taken custody of. After that, she’d told them they were on their own with a grin and a shrug and a half-assed, ‘ _Don’t die, V_ ,’ before leaving them to their own devices.

It had taken them two full days to be ready to leave, and while Steve was thankful for the roof over his head, the bullet holes in the walls didn’t settle his nerves. He’d seen homes just like this in the siege of Saigon.

But Barnes had insisted that Steve stay put and not cause any trouble, while he did what he did best; blending in.

Steve had been apprehensive at first. He didn’t like the idea of splitting up, and while it was hard to deny that part of his anxiety came from fear for Barnes’ safety, the more significant part of it was due to the fear of abandonment. It would be far too easy for Barnes to slip away and leave Steve stranded and alone in a totally alien world. Barnes had quickly put an end to Steve’s verbal hesitation by rattling away at him in Russian and then telling him that he looked like a stunned American who didn’t understand a word of what he was saying.

As much as Steve hated to admit it, Barnes was right. Even speaking the language, Barnes still stood out here. The locals no doubt pinned him as Russian, or some Eastern Bloc half-breed, but he was clearly not Georgian. Steve stood out even more with his blonde hair and, as Barnes put it, look of constant confusion.

Much to Steve’s relief – again, for two reasons – Barnes had crept back after dark, hauling a large bag with him. He’d used the money to barter warmer clothes from the locals and buy supplies. Steve could tell that Barnes had paused long enough in his day to redress his headwound. From the tired, frazzled way that Barnes had dumped the bag with Steve and then silently tucked himself into a fortified corner of the room, Steve gathered that it hadn’t been as easy as going to the local mall.

He tried to predict the way Barnes would think; the way he’d act. Barnes would want as few eyewitnesses as possible, and he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to buy everything from one place. Nothing said ‘I’m doing something shady’ like buying a shovel, warm clothes and non-perishable food items all in the one place.

The clothes themselves looked second hand. Steve had no clue how much money Natasha had hooked Barnes up with, or if the spy even had his own funds, but cash was something that Steve had personally overlooked. He still had some Romanian Lev in his wallet which would be useless here. The rest of his cash had been left behind in the hotel room. 

It left Steve knowing for sure that there’d be more petty crime in their near future.

They had a dinner of dishes that Steve couldn’t pronounce; _mchadi_ was used to slop up the nutty sauce of their cold _satsivi_ , and they chewed on thick sausages that Barnes called _kupati_ and said were made from pork. Steve was surprised how much he enjoyed the flavours, and while it was a cold meal eaten out of what looked like army issue tin bowls (Steve had no clue where Barnes had pulled those from), it was both filling and satisfying.

They’d curled up with Natasha’s blankets and spent the rest of the night in silence. When morning came, Barnes was out the door again, a _kupati_ in his mouth muffling whatever it was he said as Steve blinked bleary-eyed.

Another day, another bag. This time Barnes brought back tinned food and cheese wrapped in stiff cloth (it was good for energy boosts, he’d said). There was also a couple of handguns, boxes of ammo, a few combat knives and – and this really made Steve’s eyes widen – what looked to be an M249. Steve’s fingers had instantly twitched towards it, but Barnes slapped his hands away.

“Uh! Mine,” he hissed. He’d handed Steve the pair of CZ75 Phantoms, a box of ammo and a knife, all before tucking the rest of his arsenal away in his backpack. Clearly, Barnes seemed to think that they were going into war and, for once, Steve didn’t think it wise to bring it up. This was Barnes’ world, so if he felt they needed to be armed to the teeth, then Steve would follow along.

More clothes tipped out of the bag, and this time Barnes started sorting them into clear piles. Things for him and items for Steve.

Steve wasn’t too sure if Barnes was taking the piss, but by the time he was decked out, he was sure he looked homeless. Grey, brown and faded black layers, all unfitted and in scratchy wool with threadbare cuffs and patches at the elbows. The shabby beanie made him flinch, and he half-heartedly checked it for bugs before shoving it down low over his head.

To his credit, Barnes didn’t look much better, but Steve could see that his clothes were a little more elegant, and a bit better fitted.

He was already a lot warmer, and when they had finally left the next day, Steve was glad he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Don’t speak,” Barnes had said as they’d packed up their equipment and hauled their bags over their shoulders. Idly, Steve wondered how Barnes was going to fare with his two bags. He had his fair share of food and bottled water in the pack on his back, which left the large duffle bag for his guns. Steve knew that one of those M249’s weighed in at close to ten kilos, not to mention the other weaponry he’d been carrying around since they’d fled Bucharest. “No matter what happens. Not until I tell you that you can.”

Steve had frowned. He was used to Barnes telling him to keep his mouth closed, but this was possibly taking it a little too far. Any attempt to say as much was cut off with a click of Barnes’ fingers and shake of his head.

“Ever since your accident, we’ve been on the move looking for work. Manual labour mostly, but it’s hard when my cousin doesn’t talk and doesn’t seem to listen right. Not since the fall. It’s amazing he lived at all.

“There’s a farmer looking for help a few kilometres out of town, but that wouldn’t do good for my cousin,” Barnes continued, trusting that Steve had caught onto the play and cover story he’d constructed for them. “But one of the market ladies also said that there was a building site down by the docks looking for workers. That sounded good, so that’s where me and my cousin are headed.”

It wasn’t for the first time that Steve counted his lucky stars that he’d been able to convince Barnes to help him. For all the Winter Soldier’s snappy ways and unapproachable demeanour, Steve would have been lost before even getting started without him.

“We’ll go to the farm, obviously,” Barnes finished.

“We’re not actually going to go and-” Steve had been about to say ‘work’ when Barnes cut him off with a dramatic sigh.

“A farm, Steve. It means they’ll have vehicles. No doubt some all-terrain trucks. We’re going to need something like that.”

And there was that petty crime that Steve had known was coming.

“Wait,” Barnes had stopped by the door, frowning as he gave Steve a once over. “Take the beanie off,” he instructed while moving back into the room. When he’d come back, it had been Steve’s turn to frown. Barnes’ hands were covered in soot from their fire and, without so much as a warning, he rubbed it through the front of Steve’s hair. The dark colour smudged down over his sideburns, and Barnes left a little trail of ashy dirt over Steve’s forehead before telling Steve to put the hat back on.

As disgusting as the idea was, Steve instantly understood. Neither of them was fresh nor smelling like daisies, but Steve’s blonde hair had a way of standing out even when it was dirty.

With their supplies weighing them down and Barnes cover story sending the two outsiders in the opposite direction, they’d started the trek further out of town.

It had taken the better part of the day before they started to see the signs of farmed ground. Barnes had slowed them down after that before calling for a complete stop at dusk. They camped out in a muddy ditch until the sun went down and the moon came up. Chilled to the bone, Steve had hauled their bags closer when Barnes had finally moved.

“Stay here.” And with that, he was once again striking out into the night on his own.

For the second time that day, Steve thought himself lucky. Barnes would have been a fantastic asset to have in Vietnam. His temper would have been a problem for any CO to handle, but his skills and ability to plan ahead and push past the point of human endurance was beyond compare. Steve would have happily had him in his unit.

As the night ticked on, Steve’s mind wandered. While he was fighting his way through a dense jungle, Barnes would have been playing mind games in Soviet Moscow. There was a vast difference between the sort of war he’d fought and the one that Barnes had lived. Given Barnes’ apparent affinity for guns, Steve wondered what else Barnes had been up to during his time as a double agent. Maybe Steve was naive, but he didn’t think that an American spy in the Soviet Union would have had much use for state-of-the-art machine guns and sniper rifles.

Then again, Barnes’ file had been thick and full of black lines; there really was no telling what he’d done for the Soviet Union to solidify his cover.

That made Steve shiver.

The next time Steve saw his companion, it was when the rumble of a truck stopped just short of Steve’s position in the early hours of the morning. Steve had heard it coming long before he saw the dark outline, and he’d piled their belongings further in the ditch. If he was about to be caught, he’d be caught running with their supplies left somewhere for Barnes to find later.

But no. It was Barnes who jumped down from the truck and given that Steve could already tell a lot from his walk, Barnes was under no duress.

Obviously, his latest operation of grand theft auto had gone well.

*****

**Chapter X Preview:**

Clearly, Steve was meant to know what these buildings out in the wastelands were meant to be. A frozen construction of hell, the wire-topped fences jutting out of the snowdrifts even after years of disrepair.

“It’s where the Soviets used to send their prisoners,” Bucky offered. “It’s their version of a concentration camp. More working to death; less gas chambers.”

Steve frowned and peered back out the window. He’d heard horrors about the Soviet prison system, but like a lot of the propaganda machine, it had never seemed real. There was more talk about _good_ Americans locked up in detention in the heart of Moscow. Like Barnes had been.

“You think brutality ended with Hitler?” It wasn’t really a question, and he didn’t wait for an answer. “So fucking American of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going back to once a week posting, guys. Just for the time being. I’m still working through the last three chapters (and then sizeable epilogue), and while I know that’s rationally still a long way off, I’m really struggling to write. Brain is too chaotic and bleh (and sober. Like. What the fuck?! Lol No wonder I’m struggling) and it’s just so easy to sit on the couch and watch movies. How hot is Ryan Gosling, huh? :hearteyes:
> 
> But yeah, I’d rather slow things down now than run the risk of catching myself up and rushing the last part to meet deadlines, or just leave the story hanging until I’m in a headspace to be creative. Pretty sure you’d all prefer that too. 
> 
> It’s so fucking annoying, too. Like. I have all this time, and all these ideas (got this amazing Noir-Detective-comedy blend of a fic already started, and then a cyberpunk underdogs vs big evil corporation) rattling around in my head and yet fucked if I can actually get myself to sit down and write. I blame the forced sobriety. Haven’t been this horribly tuned in with the reality inside my own head in years! :doom&gloom:
> 
> Also… I was meant to go to Georgia. You know, but the world went to hell. So sad. 
> 
> Anyway. How you all going? Surviving? Getting things done, or are you also just binge-watching the back catalogues of various actors?


	11. Part X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna be honest. I’m not happy with this chapter. I loooove each individual scene, but together… nergh. There’s nothing wrong with it (I wouldn’t post it if I felt there was an issue) but I guess that it just moves quite quickly. Maybe a filler scene between the first two scenes, but even then… there’s nothing to say, right now, and that would only weigh it down. But anyway. Whatever. 
> 
> As said, the scenes alone are fucking cool, and we visit some cool places, so consider this their travel montage! 
> 
> Meanwhile. I have one of those Bucky Barnes Bingo cards (great timing, giving that I’m not writing at the moment and getting frustrated about it, but anyway…) so I’m using this whole story to mark off, so...
> 
> **Bucky Barnes Bingo Fill:  
>  U5 – AU: Adventurers/Explorers**

**Part X**

*****

“Are you sure you want to go in there?”

Steve hesitated a moment, his eyes skimming over the stone buildings and up towards the turbulent sky. He’d never seen a more uninviting place in his life.

“Not at all,” he admitted.

Besides him, Barnes tightened his grip on his rifle. He scuffed his boot into the dirt before flicking the ashy head of his cigarette and shoving it back between his lips. It was the sort of action a soldier made when facing a fight; grounding and solidifying their stance against what might come.

Dargavs had been a small town in the middle of nowhere. Little more than a shanty community in the curve of the Gizeldon River, it was the sort of place populated by the same few families for centuries. They weren’t used to strangers and the people born there, died there. They’d greeted them with glares and mistrust, and even Barnes’ Russian had sounded accented and different to those he spoke with. Steve guessed it was the difference between the more educated city folk and those that lived and breathed the land. They had their own local dialect, and the moment Barnes had opened his mouth, they’d scoffed and shut down.

Maybe the townsfolk thought they were KGB looking for traitors to prosecute.

Somehow Barnes had managed to barter a few more supplies and food, but, judging by the dark glower on his face afterwards, he wasn’t happy with the exchange rate.

The small township was about as unwelcoming as Steve thought a place could get.

That was, of course, until Barnes had pulled their _borrowed_ truck to a stop at the end of the sorry excuse for a road, and they’d be offered their first view of their real target location.

Also called Dargavs or, more disturbingly, _The City of the Dead,_ the ramshackle collection of old stone huts jutted out of the earth like broken, rotting fangs. They snapped up at the sky, twisted and fractured and sharp in their crumbling state, and with the way the clouds churned with the promise of rain, the entire scene became a thing out of nightmares.

The longer they stood by their jeep and looked at it, the more Steve didn’t want to move forward. 

“Lead the way, Rogers,” Barnes said with an elaborate wave of his hand.

Steve hissed slightly and pulled his pack out of the back of the truck. It was now or never, he reasoned to himself.

The climb up to the first of the huts wasn’t too strenuous, but the path was less than defined, and the unforgiving Russian weather had already kicked in. Barnes had called it _rasputitsa_ ; a season unto its own where heavy rains turned the ground to mud. It marked the coming of winter and the snow that the country was famous for. He’d said the word like a curse, and Steve was starting to understand why.

“So?” Barnes asked, “what are we looking for?” His boot skidded on a rock that had him cursing, yet he seemed just as at home out here in the wilderness as he did on the streets of Bucharest. 

“Anything… unusual,” Steve reasoned.

Beside him, Barnes stiffened and flinched back a little, and Steve felt the full weight of eyes boring into the side of his face.

“Anything unusual?” Barnes repeated. Steve was sure that even a deaf man could pick up on the sarcasm in his companions’ tone.

“The burial chambers here date back to the twelfth century,” Steve explained. “There was this-”

“I didn’t ask for a history lesson, Rogers,” Barnes interrupted. “I asked what we’re _looking_ for.”

“That’s just it,” Steve shrugged. “I have no solid definite. I mean, legend says that we’re looking for a staff, or sceptre, but I doubt we’re going to just find it propped up against a wall somewhere. It hasn’t been found, so it has to be deep. Or, we’re looking for something that might give an indication that it was here. Or another hint at the myth that could lead us in the right direction.” 

Somewhere, lost in the middle of that explanation, Steve was reminded just how vague his reasoning was.

Back in DC, he’d thought he was on the cusp of exploration greatness. Coulson had offered up so many scientific journals and historical accounts that it had all seemed rather straightforward. Go to the Soviet Union; look in some old places; find staff; save the world. That was the perfect step by step tomb raiding plan, and Steve had been sure that exploration greats would have applauded him if they were still alive.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Maybe it was because Barnes was endlessly cynical and just as intelligent as him (arguably more so) or perhaps it was because there was a giant difference between pointing at places on a map and actually going to them.

It had taken them three full days to get to where they were now. And that was since having the jeep. Putting that into perspective, it had been over two weeks since Steve had first seen Barnes back in Bucharest, and well over a week since they’d been on the move. It was a long time to be locked in the weird dance that they were doing; this bizarre juxtaposition of friendly hatred and tolerant indifference towards each other.

Barnes clearly had the same thought. The spy had stopped walking, and when Steve turned, he saw him standing still with his AK-47 lax in both hands and his hip jutting out. 

“I’ve never wanted to shoot you so goddamn much,” Barnes snarled. He rattled his rifle – thankfully still in an unthreatening, casual hold – in Steve’s direction, his eyes narrowed. “And that’s saying a lot.

“I thought you knew what you were doing,” Barnes continued. “That you had a plan.”

“Yes,” Steve tried, but one glare from Barnes had him backpedalling. “And no. It’s not like this myth came with its own map,” Steve reasoned. Barnes was getting ready to say something sassy again – Steve could see it in his eyes and in the way his lips twisted ever so slightly at the corners – so Steve kept going, talking marginally louder and faster. “Things like this don’t translate into modern geography. So, I’ve taken the concept of this ‘good versus evil’ war and crosschecked it against turbulent times in Russian history.”

For once, Barnes didn’t fly immediately off the rails. Funnily enough, that made Steve even more nervous about his companion’s reaction.

“You mean to tell me,” Barnes said slowly. Steve knew Barnes wasn’t impressed. “That we’re in the middle of fuck-all-nowhere because you had a hunch about a place where people once died?” Well, when Barnes went and put it like that Steve could see the issue. “It’s the Soviet- _fucking_ -Union, Rogers. A lot of people have died.”

“Yes,” Steve said with a nod, his right index finger raised in a feeble attempt to stop Barnes’ berating. “But given the timeframe of Slavic origins, we’re only looking at ancient mass deaths, which dramatically cuts the search field down.”

Any thought that Steve held of that being a reasonable explanation crumbled with the look that snapped across Barnes’ face.

“Then why are we here? Twelfth-century isn’t exactly mythical.”

“Because we were in the area?” Steve reasoned as a question. Maybe that would confuse Barnes and distract him.

“We’re in the area because you specifically said to _start here_.” Barnes had this way of saying words that made them sound threatening. He bit each word, pushing them out from between his clenched teeth in a way that made him look like a dangerous, wild animal snarling a warning.

Steve was doomed when he realised that he found it equally as terrifying as it was attractive.

“I’m thorough.” Steve reasoned. “It was the best way into the country, and you’d be even madder if we ended up having to backtrack here and then found something important.”

Barnes kicked a part of a wall that was probably centuries old and growled out a sigh before turning back around.

“I’m telling you right now, Rogers,” he warned. “If this turns into a hunt for Rasputin’s corpse, I’m putting you out of your fucking misery.” He shook his gun again though Steve already understood the point.

“I promise it won’t come to that,” Steve reasoned. He even offered a small smile, trying to pacify the situation. “I hope.”

The joke fell flat. Clearly, Barnes wasn’t one for goofing around, and Steve figured that he couldn’t really blame him for that.

With that out of the way, they turned their attention back to the winding path up the hill. They walked in silence, which was normal for them.

The closer they got to the old buildings, the more Steve’s dread grew. He’d never been in a place like this. It was so far detached from signs of humanity, and the air seemed to feel heavy in his lungs. People said that death clung to a place, and Steve was sure that it was true. He’d felt it in Vietnam. In the way the jungle seemed to twist and adapt to the death that filled it. Humans and war took beautiful places, and they distorted them into hellish landscapes that fuelled nightmares. Steve knew that he’d never dream of a place scarier than a muddy jungle in the middle of the night.

As they approached the first of the burial huts, Steve couldn’t bear the silence any longer. “I’m sorry. I should have been more-”

“Shut up, Steve.”

“Yes, James.”

“Don’t call me that.” Steve quirked an eyebrow but wisely put his head down as he stepped over an exposed bone. Not James, not Bucky or Buck. He was quickly crossing names off the list of what was acceptable to use around the fabled Winter Soldier. Steve didn’t feel right calling him Vanya either, which left him with the military standard of using surnames. Barnes seemed to be able to tolerate that.

Steve hadn’t known what he’d been expecting. He’d read all about this place – or at least what there was to read – and he could quote the facts easily. How it had been used as a burial place for years, and the myths about the boat like coffins. They were there to help the souls sail down the river to the afterlife.

The huts sprung up when a plague ripped through the mountain tribes, and they needed somewhere to send their dying. From what Steve had read, they’d exiled anyone showing signs of the rotting death, and the condemned had built themselves a makeshift home to live out the rest of their days.

They died where they would have been buried, cutting out the middleman needed to carry the corpse.

He also knew that locals never went here. They said that no man who entered would come back out alive. Steve had thoughtfully left that out of the briefing that he’d given Barnes. He wasn’t sure if Barnes was superstitious, but Steve hadn’t wanted to risk it. Unless there was some profound, dark evil lurking in the foothills, he was sure that he and Barnes would be fine. Still, the last thing Steve wanted was a paranoid super spy with a twitchy trigger finger by his side. Barnes would be just as likely to cut and run as he’d be to shoot Steve dead for dragging him into such a place.

The first of the huts was confronting. Steve was used to museums, and UNESCO protected sites, where things were shown with recreations, or crypts were closed, and bones were behind glass. He hadn’t expected to poke his head into an open window and see a mass collection of bones, rotting cloth and what was clearly a dead rat.

Flinching back, he heard Barnes move at his side and saw the barrel of his rifle rise and point towards the hole.

“Just skeletons,” Steve reasoned. He felt a little stupid for his adverse reaction, but from the way Barnes shifted to peer into the gloom and then grimaced, he guessed that maybe his companion hadn’t been prepared for that either.

The burial chambers were all the same. Mass graves, rotting shells of boats and crumbling ceilings. They still had the battery lanterns that Natasha had given them, and Barnes did a good job of holding them up to provide Steve with light. Steve was impressed that Barnes had managed to quell the urge to knock him in the head with one.

They spent the day poking around the ruins and shimmying down into the deep crevices that were part cave and part building. Steve tried not to count the rats – both living and dead – that they came across and tried not to let his mind start freaking out over rodents and the idea of the black death. 

Barnes was unreadable for the most part. He lifted his gun on occasion, and once Steve caught him snarling at a pack of rats like some alley cat. But he was also just as likely to be standing casually outside a crypt with a smoke dangling from his lips and talking about how the rains were coming.

Steve didn’t find anything interesting, other than the general significance of the site. But there were no cave drawings or deep dark recesses where a God-forged weapon could be hiding. Nothing that would suggest that the people here even subscribed to the same myths and legends as the rest of the country.

There were also clear signs of modern life once they started to look. A plastic bottle here, and a shiny candy bar wrapper there. There was nothing of value in the crypts, at least not in a conventional commercial way. Steve was sure that some of the bones would be worth a mint if sold to the right collector or to a government institute, but as the light began to fade, even he was happy to admit that there was nothing there.

With night starting to fall, the climb down was worse than the one up. Halfway through, the skies opened up with a thunderous roar, and the rain Barnes had been predicted started to fall. Beside him, Barnes had let out an odd array of words in multiple languages; curse words sounded the same no matter how they were said.

As the slope turned to mud, they slipped and slid down. Steve knew mud. He’d felt it in his boots and on his legs under his fatigues; he’d felt it between his fingers and in his hair; he’d seen it red with blood and stinking with death and rot. He knew the feeling of it splattering on his face in the wake of a landmine.

This was something different, though, and Steve was grateful. It was like the mountain was crying on them, and the pathway melted beneath their feet. Steve tripped and slid a good few feet on his ass, and surprisingly, Barnes didn’t laugh. He simply hauled Steve up by his sleeve, and they carried on. A few steps later, it was Barnes’ turn to go, but he was up and swaying with his gun tossed over his shoulder before Steve could help.

By the time they reached the jeep, they were both covered in mud and soaked to the bone. Steve made a half-hearted attempt to brush the slush off his pants, but all it did was smear it further. At least he didn’t have as much to worry about as Barnes. The spy looked like a drowned rat; his usual bun had come loose, letting his hair plaster itself all over his face and a muddy streak marred his cheek from where he’d obviously braced himself with his hand and then tried to push his hair back.

It would have been endearingly cute if Barnes wasn’t glowering like a man on a murder mission.

“So, I have the second option marked on the map,” Steve tried with a sheepish smile.

It didn’t get him very far. The look that Barnes fixed him with could have killed, and there was something decidedly _done_ about the way Barnes swung himself in the drivers’ seat and slammed the door shut.

*****

They found nothing at Manpupuner.

The logical second stop on their cross-country hunt, the giant pillars to the sky had been just as beautiful as they were useless in their quest.

They’d crossed the three-thousand-kilometre drive over five days. The going was tough, the roads made even harder as the muddy season fully set in. There were more days with rain then there were with sun, and their 4x4 Lada guzzled gas as its wheels churned up the unpaved roads.

It didn’t help that they tended to go off-road when faced with small settlements. When they needed supplies, then they braved the towns. Barnes did all the talking and Steve mostly stayed in the truck so as not to arouse suspicion. Once, Barnes had left Steve on the side of the road a few kilometres from the town and Steve had suffered through three hours of wondering if Barnes was gone for good.

Strangely, the Winter Soldier came back for him, and Steve tried not to show his undying gratitude for not being left out in the mud to die. He didn’t think Barnes would appreciate the sentimentality.

Steve had marked the rock formations of Manpupuner for their mythological creation stories, not because of any records of mass deaths. The location was far too remote for any genocides or epic wars, but the legends the locals used to explain the strange formations could have easily fit in with the likes of Chernobog or Svarog.

The seven giant stone pillars sat on the top of a flat mountain, so out of place that they looked totally otherworldly. They were said to be the fossilised remains of Samoyed giants, either turned to stone by a Mansi medicine man intent on keeping his village safe, or captured and forced to march to the sound of a drum. When the drummer had been overcome with the beauty of the region, it was said that the giants froze, forever useless against the endless sky.

All in all, Steve wasn’t so sure how he felt about the legitimacy of the legends, but if he was going on faith with a magical staff and a battle of gods, then he deemed it foolish to rule anything mystical out.

They’d had to leave the truck at the base of the mountain. Barnes had insisted that they at least try to disguise it, so they’d packed it between boulders on the banks of the Pechora River and then hiked up the mountain from there.

While the site itself proved to be useless in their quest, it did provide Steve with some unexpected knowledge about his companion. He learned two important things about Barnes up in the hills. The first was the most surprising; Barnes had a fear of heights. Steve never would have expected it – hell, he’d been almost sure that Barnes feared nothing – but the higher they climbed, the more anxious Barnes’ seemed to get.

It started slowly at first. Little glances to the side that Steve was too perceptive not to notice. Then there were the sudden and regular stops; times when Barnes would put his hands on his hips and breathe or pretend to fiddle with his hair. It wasn’t a matter of fitness. Barnes could probably run laps around Steve if he tried, so that meant it had to be something else that was slowing Barnes down.

Eventually, Steve caught it. Saw the way that Barnes side-eyed the cliff and how he wiped his palms on the front of his pant legs. They left a sweaty stain. Steve wisely said nothing. No one wanted their flaws pointed out, especially not when they were in the middle of trying to quietly deal with them.

The second was something that Steve pretty much knew anyway, and it was that Barnes was a dick to historical sights. It was a lot clearer to spot given the way Barnes had sat himself down on the base of one of the ancient rocks and lit up a cigarette. He’d stubbed it out on his shoe before flicking it to the side, and again, Steve had wisely kept his mouth shut. He seemed to do that a lot these days.

Steve was pretty sure that touching the rocks was considered a sin, but he was just as sure that Barnes wouldn’t give a shit about things like that.

Barnes had chain-smoked his time away and attempted to not look at anything that made their elevation apparent. Steve poked around and tried to look for any signs of… anything. He could still hear Barnes’ words in his head from back in Dargavs. Now that they were out here, surviving against all the odds and the terrible weather and actually looking for this staff, Steve couldn’t help but feel worried about the whole expedition. It was one thing to sit and think about it and plot points on a map and something else entirely to be out here trying to make sense of an ancient myth.

He didn’t even want to think about how this would all end. Honestly, Steve didn’t know what would be worse. To find the staff would prove the known concept of creation wrong and turn the world on its head. It could also mean the end of the world if it somehow fell into the wrong hands. But to find nothing? That was just as frightening. That would mean that he’d been the perfect pawn in a crazy scheme to flush Barnes out, kill everything the spy held dear, and drag him back into the very country that he’d escaped from.

The more Steve thought about it, the more he was sure that the latter option would be the worst. He also knew that he’d offer no resistance when Barnes undoubtedly decided to kill him. It would be karma in the purest form, and even dead, Steve wouldn’t be able to hold a grudge against Barnes for his retribution. 

“Losing light here, Rogers,” Barnes’ voice jumped Steve out of his thoughts. He turned to the west and held up his hand. The sun was still a palms width from the horizon, but they had a long climb down. The hike down from Dargavs had been bad enough, and that had defined pathways, and it was little more than a steep hill. It would take at least an hour without rest to get down from here, and quietly, Steve knew that Barnes wouldn’t want to do that in the dark.

They’d packed a few of their supplies, but they’d agreed at the bottom that it was pointless to go lugging all their stuff up the mountain. If, and Barnes had said the word with massive inflection; _if_ they found something up there, they’d still be smarter coming down for the night and heading up again tomorrow than trying to brave the cold of the peak. They weren’t prepared for a night out in the freezing winds of the Komi hills.

With a sigh and one last look around, Steve had started to pack up. He’d noted anything of interest down in the small notebook that Barnes had got for him – most likely stolen – and swung his pack onto his back.

Barnes had indicated that Steve should go first, but Steve made a point of fiddling around and waving Barnes on. Steve got it. Barnes didn’t want Steve to see his weakness, and no doubt thought that being at the back of the line would be best for that. The only issue was that Steve tended to see it the other way. He’d rather have Barnes in front of him; somewhere Steve could keep an eye on him and make sure that he didn’t freak himself out, or, worse, lose himself to a panic that might cause him to fall. With Barnes in front, at least Steve would have the chance to grab at him if the worst should happen.

They picked their way down in silence. Barnes was steady on his feet, but he did cling to the wall in a way that made Steve nervous. Every now and then Barnes’ hand would brush against something that would make a few rocks tumble and that had Barnes giving into his closeted fear and stopping dead in his tracks.

The light escaped them quicker than either of them would have liked. Once they started to get down into the valleys and gullies, then they were forced to work with the grey of heavy dusk. Steve knew that Barnes wouldn’t sacrifice the use of one of his hands for a torch, so Steve had pulled his out and did his best to light the path in front of his companion, all without seeming like he was babying the fabled Winter Soldier. It was a tricky feat to pull off.

“You know,” Barnes grit between his clenched teeth. He had one hand on the side of the cliff as he picked his way across a treacherous section of the path. It was clear that landslides happened here a lot. “I’m thrilled we got to do this.” The sarcasm was so thick in his voice that Steve was surprised Barnes could breathe with all that weight in him. “I _love_ climbing mountains just to watch an America look confused.”

Maybe Steve was starting to get soft, but he actually chuckled out loud. Call him stupid, but there was a part of him that was totally smitten with Barnes’ snark.

*****

“What the hell is this place?” Steve sighed as he peered out the snow speckled windscreen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Barnes lift one eyebrow. It was an expression he was prone to do when shocked. Or when he thought Steve was an idiot.

Clearly, Steve was meant to know what these buildings out in the wastelands were meant to be. A frozen construction of hell, the wire-topped fences jutting out of the snowdrifts even after years of disrepair.

“It’s where the Soviets used to send their prisoners,” Bucky offered. “It’s their version of a concentration camp. More working to death; less gas chambers.”

Steve frowned and peered back out the window. He’d heard horrors about the Soviet prison system, but like a lot of the propaganda machine, it had never seemed real. There was more talk about _good_ Americans locked up in detention in the heart of Moscow. Like Barnes had been.

“You think brutality ended with Hitler?” It wasn’t really a question, and he didn’t wait for an answer. “So fucking American of you.

“They are – were – called gulags. Anyone who opposed the regime. Anyone too well educated. They were sent here to work and die or occasionally eat each other. What the hell do they teach you in American schools?” Barnes questioned.

That was a good point. The more Steve saw of the world, the more he was starting to understand that things had been simplified for mass education back home. He was sure it was the same everywhere though – or at least he wanted to believe so – but he was starting to suspect that might not be the case. Of course, not everyone needed to know the ins and outs of every other country. Still, considering that America had declared themselves in a strange sort of war with the Soviet Union for decades now, it would have been helpful if the general populace knew more than what they did.

Of course, that was the issue here. The more people knew, the more they questioned. Steve himself wasn’t about to go switching sides or crying about how the USSR was misrepresented and needlessly turned into a villain, but he was more than willing to understand that there were two sides to every coin.

He’d already had his doubts about Vietnam, and as more truths came out about the American involvement, even he as a patriot couldn’t deny that too many things had been hushed up. Too many things had been spun in the media propaganda cycle, clearly encouraged by a government agenda.

Places like this surely didn’t make him think any kinder of the Soviets; it was the little things that had his mind opening. Barnes at his side was a significant factor. The spy didn’t open up much, but sometimes things slipped, and it reminded Steve that there were people in the USSR. People. Humans. Not a brainwashed cult or an all-encompassing war machine set to destroy the States. There were people who wanted nothing at all to do with the pissing contest and, what’s more, they were being kept in the dark even more than the general American populace.

It was ignorance that fuelled this war. Ignorance encouraged by fear.

“My father went to one of these camps.”

Steve faltered, his own thoughts whirring to a standstill at the small personal detail that Barnes revealed. He knew so little about Barnes as a whole, and his personal life – before that damn photo on the jeep and before he was given the Winter Soldier codename – was a total blank. There’d been nothing covering Barnes’ motives in his file. Nothing other than what Steve had assumed was the desire to keep his mother and sister safe and get them settled in a new country.

No further explanation came as Barnes pulled the truck up to the front gate. It had been busted open, with the left door hanging off the hinges. There were a few holes in the fence, and the whole place looked like it was ready to fall down at any moment.

“It’ll provide decent cover for the night,” Barnes said. Steve had been afraid of that. “Grab the gate. The truck won’t drive over that.”

Part of Steve wanted to protest. Not the idea of getting the gate. He was the passenger; that was his job. But the idea of staying in a place that was so clearly haunted by what it had housed was horrifying. But, as per usual, part of Steve knew that Barnes was right. They’d been camping out in the cab of the truck for weeks now, and it would be good to have some space and stretch out. Get a proper fire going and maybe dry some of their more stubborn, thick clothes.

As Steve swung down from the passenger seat and trudged through the mud, he couldn’t help but feel like he was marching towards something oppressively evil. 

*****

**Part XI Preview:**

“The file that led me to you,” Steve said. “It. It showed a photo of you. Executed. Shot in the head. It was sent to your previous employers.”

If this revelation wasn’t new to Barnes, then he didn’t show it. Steve guessed that the documentation of his death had all been part of the plan; if not the escape, then at least the setup of his new life.

“Spend enough time alone in the dark, and we all start to look the same.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said way back in the beginning that all the places I mentioned were real. I did take a little creative licence with [Dargavs](https://www.google.com/search?q=Dargavs&client=firefox-b-d&channel=trow2&sxsrf=ALeKk00GuoAwtdE1gNHivl8sBKTkkq5XOg:1587634355235&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjOnpvunv7oAhUF3aQKHaOyBl0Q_AUoAXoECBgQAw&biw=1368&bih=776&dpr=2), as while this place is real, and 95% of what I’ve written about it is true, during Soviet times, it was actually a really macabre Russian tourist attraction. Even had a ticket administration booth and all. I found this out AFTER I’d already fallen in love with it as a setting, so I chose to artistic licence that part of history out. I did put a bit of a nod to it towards the end of the scene though.
> 
> [Manpupuner](https://www.google.com/search?q=Manpupuner&client=firefox-b-d&channel=trow2&sxsrf=ALeKk00AiIAfGqUobZOeHyHypPGo6l5TTQ:1587634529980&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiN78TBn_7oAhUM26QKHa1WAkAQ_AUoAXoECBcQAw&biw=1368&bih=776) is also real and super impressive looking. 
> 
> I have a map! Because I like to map things out, but of course, I have the whole thing plotted out on it, which will spoiler a few thing. So I’m not going to share that yet, but eventually, I’ll link to their actual ‘road trip’ travel plan so you can see where and how far they went. 
> 
> Anyway. Hope you're all doing ok, and, as always, I'm totally living off your feedback right now! Feed me! ;)


	12. Part XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so fucking excited for this chapter! 
> 
> Now, I know how we all feel about song suggestions, but just take a moment. Remember how good The Hollies’ Long Cool Woman (In a Black Dress) set the scene for Bucky and his rag-tag group of resistance fighters? Lots of you commented on how well that went. 
> 
> Well. This chapter also comes with **required** listening. You HAVE to listen to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1UYDKxxQ50o). It’s… old and talky and not at all catchy or anything, but it’s a hauntingly AMAZING view on the Vietnam war, and once you deal with the Aussie accent (god, it annoys even me!) then it is the perfect, fucking perfect, theme song for Steve and his PTSD. And you’ll see that moments and snippets of lyrics really inspire some of Steve’s memories. 
> 
> Get a drink, close your eyes, listen to it, and then read the chapter. 
> 
> Anyway. This was the second scene that I wrote, and was probably the first to be properly finished. I started with their first meeting to set the tone of their relationship, and then switched to this to show the progression. They were my guidelines and where I needed to build and push and drive them to. Bookends, so to speak. I finished this scene before the fight scene, though, and it’s honestly one of my absolute favourite things in the entire fic. 
> 
> On that note… nothing exciting happens at all! Lol.

**Part XI**

Barnes looked like something out of the myth they were chasing.

The firelight played tricks with the lines of his face, morphing him from light-drenched and young despite his years, to gaunt and devilish; sunken eyes and twisted lips and a highlighted brow that promised dark deeds. Even the pinkish scar that marked his close call with a bullet back in Bucharest seemed to shine in the firelight.

Steve had been staring for a while. He was aware of that, and given Barnes’ training, Barnes had to be aware of it as well. Neither of them said anything though, with the only noticeable sound being the campfire between them and the random snap of twigs as Barnes fuelled the fire.

It was haunting how well Barnes had guided them through the camp. He’d steered them clear of the rows of cells just as he’d avoided what was clearly the warden’s elaborate house on the edge of the camp. Steve had tried not to look at either too closely, though he’d still managed to get a flash of bunk beds pushed in too tight and high. He wondered how many people had been crammed into those constricted spaces.

Finally, Barnes had directed them into what looked like a mess hall. There was a crumbling, unusable kitchen in the back and rows of overturned benches and tables with Cyrillic words scratched into the surfaces. The building itself was sturdy and sound, and while there was a hole in the roof near the kitchen, the place was large enough that they could bunk in at the other end and not feel a draft. A quick shuffle of the old furniture helped to build them an indoor shelter; the pieces that broke off had been used to fuel their fire.

There was nothing funny about the place, nor the situation, but Steve did find it amusing that they’d wordlessly bunked down together. They’d been living in each other’s pockets for almost a month now, and there were times where it wore on Steve’s nerves. If he felt it, then he was sure that Barnes felt it tenfold.

Neither of them was easy to deal with, and the bad weather tended to bring out the worst in both. Add the severity of their mission and the rocky foundation they’d based their confusing truce on, and it had made for some turbulent times. Steve was sure that they were both craving space, yet here, in the frozen and abandoned gulag, the idea of being alone – at least to Steve – seemed impossible.

He hoped that Barnes felt the same way.

They’d built their fire and pulled their blankets from the truck and done their best to be comfortable. Barnes had wordlessly cooked a meal of tinned beans and bread that was long stale, but was still edible once roasted over the fire. They ate in silence and sighed as they stretched out, ready for their first night not cramped into a sitting position.

Silence followed, and to Steve, the minutes seemed to tick by so slowly that they might have been hours. He’d made a pillow of his backpack and rolled himself in a blanket. Barnes was leaning against an overturned table, stretched out but not lying down.

“I struggle to sleep,” Steve finally said. The silence had been painful, and clearly, neither of them were ready to bunk down. It had been like this for weeks now. Huddled around a fire in the cold or endlessly watchful in abandoned shacks that somehow reeked of death. Usually, one of them would give first; claim that they were going to try and get some sleep and ask to be woken for the second watch. Old military habits die hard, even out here in the snowy wasteland where they hadn’t seen a single soul in days.

Tonight felt different. There was something in the air, something worrying that Steve couldn’t quite put his finger on. A tension that existed around them, not between them.

Steve also put it down to their next location and the looming darkness that was waiting for them there. It could make the most well-adjusted person hesitant to sleep in the dark.

“I get this thing in my head,” he continued. “This sound. And I know it’s not there, it’s not real. But once I start thinking about it, then that’s it. I can’t hear anything else.”

He stopped speaking, and it seemed like his words echoed around the empty hall. Barnes hadn’t so much as flinched at the sound of his voice, and his eyes were still locked on the fire. The minutes passed again, and Steve resolved himself to being ignored. He couldn’t fault Barnes for it, but somehow, he still felt like a rock had sunk into his stomach.

“Gunfire?”

The question made Steve blink. He’d honestly not expected a response.

“Sometimes,” Steve nodded. “But mostly it’s that whirring sound of chopper blades. You know? That clock-like, rhythmic tick as they turn. A constant throb of sound and noise and the promise of where it will lead.”

He didn’t know if Barnes understood. Steve was sure that the spy would have been in a chopper or two in his lifetime, but it wouldn’t have been anything like Steve. He’d practically lived in them. Up and down; in and out. Ziplines and daring rescues and thankful extractions.

“I hear it all the time.” That and the sound of his men screaming. Severed arteries adding to the squelch of mud. The unnatural rustle of leaves and the feeling of being watched. Steve got those a lot too, but mostly it was the choppers.

Again, the silence stretched, and Steve resolved himself to the conversation being over. He shifted and pushed the folds of his backpack together, trying to make it more comfortable.

“I don’t hear anything,” Barnes shook his head, and for a moment, Steve was sure that he was about to shut the conversation down right there. Blow it away like a surprise attack in the jungle.

Barnes broke another stick and tossed the smaller end into the fire. It crackled and caused sparks to fly.

“Sound wasn’t… They didn’t…” Steve looked up slowly, not wanting to spook Barnes with any sudden movements. The way the firelight played across Barnes’ face showed how desperately he was struggling for words. It would have been endearing if the topic had been more light-hearted.

“You don’t really hear gunshots and helicopters in Lubyanka,” Barnes strung the sentence together with a smile that bordered on manic. He never once looked up though, his eyes locked onto the fire with an intensity that burned. “Silence is oppressive. It’s a weapon. It can strip everything from you just as it can give you everything. Every hope. Every memory. Every fear. Silence heightens it all. Makes it hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t.”

A cold shiver ran the length of Steve’s spine, though he knew it had nothing to do with the weather. His mind went back to Barnes’ file, recalling just how long he’d survived in the infamous KGB prison. It was a long time to be locked away with your own thoughts, and while Steve couldn’t even begin to comprehend the mental toll it had taken, he could sympathise.

“How did you get out?”

Barnes smiled at that, and the firelight made him look dangerous and dark.

It was stupid, and it was so irrational and made no sense to Steve, but at the moment, he knew that he fell for Barnes. More than he had when he’d first seen him, all cocky and sure, and more than when Barnes had been covered in blood and irrational about the loss of his friends. Even more than when Barnes smiled and jabbed a cigarette between his lips while making fun of Steve’s blundering _Americanness_.

Barnes was a fighter. A survivor. The picture-perfect definition of someone who refused to be beaten down. He wore his battle scars like splashes of watercolour, and he displayed them with the cool arrogance of someone who knew that they would always triumph. 

He was as cunning and intelligent as he was damaged and broken. But Barnes didn’t cry and shrink away when things got terrible; he faced them head-on with a clenched jaw and a lifted head as he put the shattered pieces of himself back together.

Barnes was everything that Steve admired, and then some.

“I got lucky,” he said with casual indifference. Steve wasn’t sure if luck was a term that could be put to Barnes’ life at all, but he wasn’t going to deny Barnes his ideals. “Natasha. The smuggler. She’s always had troubled allegiances.”

That officially explained nothing and left Steve with more questions. He’d gathered from the way that Natasha had told Barnes that he wasn’t going to like the transport option that they’d done this once before. In his mind, he could see a malnourished, terrified Barnes curled up in a container much like theirs, and that broke a part of Steve. Steve would never consider himself idealistic, but there was just something far too painful about that mental image.

“The file that led me to you,” Steve said. “It. It showed a photo of you. Executed. Shot in the head. It was sent to your previous employers.”

If this revelation wasn’t new to Barnes, then he didn’t show it. Steve guessed that the documentation of his death had all been part of the plan; if not the escape, then at least the setup of his new life.

“Spend enough time alone in the dark, and we all start to look the same.”

Steve shivered, and as the flames flickered stripes of colour across Barnes’ cheeks, Steve saw the lines of hardship back on his companion’s face.

“So, I really am dead?” Barnes asked.

Steve didn’t understand. Not until Barnes pushed his hand through his hair and sighed, and suddenly Steve had to wonder; what sort of letter did Barnes’ mother get? They wouldn’t have told her the full story; not even a fraction of it. Killed in active duty. That was a term that Steve had heard far too many times in his life, and now his mind tore itself apart thinking about how that would have come translated to Barnes’ family.

He was saved from trying to work out what to say by Barnes’ own musings.

“That’s probably for the best,” Barnes sighed. “Better to be thought dead than to know…” he paused. “What really happened. And the things I’ve done.”

The more Barnes talked, the more questions Steve had. He’d already been intrigued by the blacked-out sections of Barnes’ file. All those missions so highly classified that they warranted the _black box_. Not for the first time, Steve wondered what Barnes had done. What had America asked of him, and what had the Soviet Union demanded as proof of his loyalty?

Beside him, Barnes sighed and stoked the fire. “I didn’t want to be found.”

“I know.”

Another leap of flames and the crack of tortured wood followed as Barnes tossed another table leg into the fire.

“But I couldn’t do nothing, you know?”

Steve nodded, not at all trusting himself to speak. This was the most vocal that Barnes had been unless he was cursing Steve and calling him all the names under the sun. Even then, a lot of the berating came in a slew of languages that flicked too fast for Steve to comprehend.

“I didn’t plan to end up where I did. I just wanted to go _home_. Forget that this stupid non-war even existed and go somewhere safe.”

Steve couldn’t blame him for that. He’d been desperate for the same things after Vietnam. A place that would welcome him back and people who would hug him and tell him that Steve had done his duty and that it had been _right_. It hadn’t happened for Steve, and he was sure as hell that it hadn’t happened for Barnes.

“But home is so broken. Bucharest is a mess. I mean, it always was, don’t get me wrong, but now?” Barnes shook his head, and for the first time all night, he looked up. Looked right into Steve’s eyes and pinned him down with his gaze. There were years in Barnes’ eyes; time unaccounted for but burdened with wisdom and an unsettling understanding of the world.

“I always heard stories of the Nazis and how horrible they were. All the millions of people they killed. As Romanians, we grew up knowing that we picked the wrong side at the beginning, but that we were smart and strong enough to change. To betray our first allies and join the fight for the good. We grew up knowing that the Red Army helped to push the Germans back from our territories. That they were heroes who saved our country and unified us against war with our neighbours.

“For those generations, Communism was the smart move. Say what you want about it, but it saved us after the war. We were already poor, already so far behind everyone else. To have these people come in and tell us exactly what to do and how to live and what was expected was heaven-sent. We didn’t covet thy neighbour because we were all the same. We didn’t struggle with banks and loans because we all worked to own our homes from the government. They might have been cookie-cutter clones of the block next door, and the block next to that, but it was a _home_. A roof after so much destruction and chaos.”

Steve’s knowledge of Communism was that it was bad. That it was a threat to the world and the country of the free. It was something to be stopped at all costs because nothing good could come of it. He’d never heard someone talk so candidly about it before.

“But then the terror starts, you know?” Barnes shook his head slightly, and what he said next clearly wasn’t meant as an insult. “No. You don’t. You couldn’t possibly. But to go from where everyone is equal, and everyone has exactly the same benefits and drawbacks, to having the _Securitate_ knocking on your door at night because your neighbour thinks you’ve said something wrong? Seeing people getting dragged away and then never seeing them again.

“And now?” Barnes paused again, just long enough to pick up another hunk of wood and start worrying at it with his thumbnail. “Ceaușescu won’t stop until he destroys everything.”

“I’m sorry, Buck.” The nickname was past Steve’s lips before he’d noticed, and for once Barnes didn’t bite his head off over it. Didn’t growl at him that they weren’t friends and that _Bucky_ was dead.

“I got back and saw what was going on, saw Ceaușescu ploughing down homes to build his stupid palace and everyone was just… silent about it.”

Steve could tell that Barnes was getting upset. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like coming home to a place torn apart by a ruthless dictator.

When Steve had returned from Vietnam, it had been to fanfare and the comforts of a long-liberated country. He got to slip right into life, enjoying all the good things he’d left behind, and all the things they’d fought to bring to the people of the war-torn nation. No one cared about the nightmares, and Steve, and Sam, and everyone they knew, never mentioned them. It was a by-product of war and a burden to bear that didn’t need to be spoken about.

“I didn’t want to get involved. Despite what you might think, I wasn’t planning some overthrow or rebellion, I just... Everyone needs somewhere, you know. A place they can go. A spark to keep them alive. Maybe a little hope. That’s how it all started and somehow it just… just grew and people kept coming, and we kept quiet and bided our time, but I never would have pushed them into a fight.

“I just wanted them to be safe.” Barnes laughed, dry and mirthless. “And maybe if a few revolutionary acts were planned and put into place, and maybe if a few _Securitate_ members disappeared under my direction, it was still all strategic. Small fish in a large barrel. Something to keep the restless and unhappy sated while risking very little.”

“I wish we could have helped you,” Steve offered.

The moment Barnes’ eyes flared, Steve knew he’d said something wrong.

“We, as in, you and an army of understanding super soldiers? Or We as in, _America_?”

“America.” Steve supplied, already feeling like an ant facing Barnes’ shoe. “We should have helped more after the Second World War. Made sure things didn’t get so bad.”

“That’s dangerously arrogant, Steve.” The honest way Barnes spoke softened any perceivable blow. “America isn’t without its faults. No country or government is. If they’d pushed their power after the war, then they would have been just as oppressive as helpful. And to have an Americanised push through Romania would only bring more pain for the people. They wouldn’t understand it. It would destroy them.” 

Steve wanted to protest. Wanted to elaborate on all the ways that his home could help liberate Romania. And the countries suffering just like it. It would be like the western countries of Europe, those that had come out faring better from World War Two and had flourished in the years that followed. But then his mind supplied recent history and the clusterfuck that had been his own war experience, and for once, he kept his mouth shut.

Maybe Barnes was right. After all, he knew his country better than any western politician ever could, and it wasn’t like Barnes was without his own American scars. They would have cut deeper than Steve’s own, given the limited time Barnes had spent on American soil. A training exercise to shape and control him for interests that Steve knew wouldn’t have aligned with Barnes’ own.

It was a harrowing thought, and Steve felt his mind wander as it tossed ideas back and forth. Endless possibilities and endless reasons why they’d never work.

“What was it like?”

The question caught Steve off guard. He frowned and looked at Barnes, waiting for clarification. “Vietnam.” he simplified. “I’ve never been in an actual warzone.”

Steve had considered that a lot during their time together. From the moment Barnes’ file had appeared on his desk, all Steve could think about was how terrible and tragic his life had been. How scary everything was. Not knowing who to trust or where to turn, and continually being on the run. Always looking over his shoulder and expecting the worst.

To Steve, it was that feeling of the unknown terror that had drawn him to Barnes’ story and – and he could admit this now – had made him want to find Barnes. Bring him in, take him somewhere safe and prove that he didn’t need to guard his own back.

The world of espionage and secrets, lies and life-and-death meetings was so alien to Steve. He didn’t understand how someone could live pretending to be someone else, and then willingly risk everything for a dangerous meeting to exchange information. Barnes was able to walk into a room of known enemies and not only keep his wits about him but play them like fiddles, coaxing secrets from well-trained lips.

Somehow, on top of that, he was also a physical force to be reckoned with. Barnes knew his way around a gun as well as Steve, if not better, and Steve knew first-hand that Barnes could fight and fight with a dirty intent to win. It was all or nothing with Barnes, and again Steve wondered about all those classified files. Had Barnes been some assassin in the night? Or a sniper on a rooftop, the barrel aimed at American spies to prove his worth and loyalty?

And Steve? Well, he shot guns and gave inspiring speeches. Rallied people to follow him despite the high possibility of death.

Ironically, it was no doubt that SHIELD had been hesitant to send Steve in, and why he was meant to have a trained escort with him.

Sitting across from the spy who’d managed to trick the two most powerful governments in the world into believing he was dead, all while underhandedly working against an oppressive regime, Steve couldn’t help but wonder what Barnes would have been like in ‘Nam. Would he have followed orders like Steve’s platoons did, or would he have told Steve that he was full of shit and called him out? Told the others that Steve was leading them all to their death like some star-spangled, patriotic moron.

Steve almost smiled, knowing that Barnes would have fallen in the latter category.

Hell, if Barnes had been in Vietnam, he probably would have found a way to subterfuge the entire operation and end the war in a matter of days.

He would have saved thousands and thousands of lives. 

“I don’t really know what to say,” Steve mused. And he didn’t. How could he possibly describe what it felt like to be there? But Barnes had opened up, and Steve owed him the same courtesy.

“It was hot,” he started with a small chuckle of irony. “Nothing like this. No snow and bone-numbing cold, that’s for sure. Asian orange sunsets are a thing to behold. It’s like the sun is closer. Hovers over the horizon and paints the sky the most amazing colours.”

The fire highlighted the rise of Barnes’ eyebrow. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting Steve to start out like that.

“So hot,” Steve continued, ignoring the look. “Oppressively so. And full of bugs. They flocked to the sweat on your skin. You’d sweat everywhere. Despite the heat, I don’t think I was ever actually dry. The jungle.” Steve paused and breathed in deep, his mind flashing to lush vegetation and poor lines of sight. “It kept you closed in. Claustrophobic despite how far it spread. It was so thick that sometimes you didn’t know if it was day or night and that sweat would roll down your legs and slicken up the mud at your feet. 

“It was as beautiful as it was terrifying.”

Steve could remember when he’d first arrived. A bundle of nerves with a gun and too many grenades strapped to his belt. He’d been terrified even in camp, but that first time he saw the sunset, his fingers had itched for his pencils. Up until then, Steve had never wanted to sketch anything as much as he had wanted to capture that sunset. Now his mind thought about other things. About hair in a bun, and haunted eyes and a cocky smile. Steve wished he could draw that and banish all other memories from his mind.

“The Viet Cong weren’t really soldiers. They weren’t trained like we were. Didn’t follow any sense of rules. They were guerrilla fighters on their home turf. They knew the jungles better than their own cities, and we? Well, we stumbled in and… we tried. We tried to fight and tried to win, but mostly, we tried to survive.

“I’ve never looked at mud the same way again.”

Steve shifted and tried to get himself comfortable again. It felt strange to be talking about these sorts of things. Barnes opening up had been odd enough, but now digging into the memories that Steve worked so hard to repress had him feeling detached. For a moment, the cold cement under him could have been mud, and the silence was just that agonising period that came between chopper evacuations.

“Sometimes I think that there’s something really wrong with me,” Steve carried on. “With the way I hear things. The helicopters. The yelling. The screaming. No one screams like someone who’s stood on a landmine. I swear you could hear the sound of bone shattering even over the explosion. The worst thing is that, in that moment, you just want them to _stop_. To shut the fuck up. Because that screaming is going to give your position away. Going to bring bullets and another wave of blood and terror.”

Steve laughed dryly, the sound lacking any sense of humour. “And it grates on your nerves. When infection took hold, then that crying could last for days. And that makes you a horrible person. It drives you crazy, and it becomes the only thing you can hear, and as much as you hate the sound of bullets, you almost welcome them just for a distraction.”

After that, Steve didn’t know what else to say. Perhaps he’d turned Barnes right off; shocked him with his dark confession, and with the words sitting thick on Steve’s tongue, he didn’t think he could speak anymore.

Barnes wrapped himself up in his blanket and finally slid down to curl up on his side, but his eyes didn’t close. Steve could see the gleam of the fire reflected there.

“I guess we both have our crosses to bear.”

The words brought a small smile to Steve’s lips. He liked that Barnes didn’t try to offer him empty words of encouragement, or silly phrases made to soothe old wounds. What he said was real, and an honest take on all their personal shortcomings and fears. Steve had to give Barnes credit for his tact and his intelligence.

“You know,” Steve muttered. He wasn’t too sure if he was actually talking to his companion or just thinking out loud. “I’d kill for a whiskey right now.”

“No,” Barnes said, shaking his head against his pack turned makeshift pillow. “One thing the Soviets do right,” Barnes looked up with a grin. It was a natural expression, not one twisted with an underlying meaning. “Is vodka.”

Steve laughed and pulled his blanket closer, and for once, as silence settled between them, it wasn’t suffocating.

*****

**Part XII Preview**

“So,” Sitwell interrupted. “You and Barnes became close.”

Steve wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a question, or if Sitwell just enjoyed the sound of his own voice. There was a snide undertone to the words that made Steve’s back teeth grind against each other. Even the way he said Barnes’ name seemed like it was meant to be an insult.

“We were alone for a long a time,” Steve reasoned. “We found common ground.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“I got back and saw what was going on, saw Ceaușescu ploughing down homes to build his stupid palace and everyone was just… silent about it.”_
> 
> This, technically didn’t happen for another two years. Plans and stuff started in ’79, as there was an earthquake and blah blah history. But building of the actual palace didn’t officially start until… ’84, I think, but this was the easiest way to explain it and get the idea of what Barnes was feeling across. 😊 
> 
> Anyway! Look at all that bonding! It's like they're learning to like each other or something just as crazy! I’m proud of them! Are you?


	13. Part XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is coming during frantic cleaning and packing.
> 
> I have a flight! Tomorrow! So, I’m trying to get my shit together. 
> 
> As a quick disclaimer: I don’t know what’s really going to happen when I get home. I know that anyone disembarking the plane will be met at the airport by the military and escorted to a quarantine location for a two-week period. I haven’t found too much information about it online. I’ve seen a lot of people who HAVEN’T been through it complaining about people complaining about it being like prison, so that’s really not helpful. Some people say that they were put in hotels usually reserved for flight offloads/cancellations (so they’re generally good 4-star hotels) while others have ended up in roadside motels with a bed, a TV and a bathroom and nothing else. 
> 
> _Anyway._ Hopefully there will be wi-fi so at least weekly updates will happen. If there isn’t though, then there’s nothing I can do and I’ll see you all on the flipside after the two weeks (and I work out somewhere to go after that, because I’m flying into a city that isn’t home, and there are no connections available at this point in time… fucking Australia!) 
> 
> Fic wise… So, after all that bonding, here! Have some Sitwell and some bad stuff! 😉 Because we all knew that I wouldn’t let the happiness last too long.

# Part XII

Mission Report: 22nd December 1981

1900 hours

**Vienna International Centre**

48°14′05″N 16°25′01″E

Vienna, Austria

File: 6108’46N

Subject: Captain Steven Grant Rogers

* * *

“So,” Sitwell interrupted. “You and Barnes became close.”

Steve wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a question, or if Sitwell just enjoyed the sound of his own voice. There was a snide undertone to the words that made Steve’s back teeth grind against each other. Even the way he said Barnes’ name seemed like it was meant to be an insult.

“We were alone for a long a time,” Steve reasoned. “We found common ground.” 

Sitwell hummed in the back of this throat as he shifted the pages of his file around. The action made Steve’s eye twitch.

“Do you have a problem with that?” he finally asked. It would have been smart to keep his mouth shut or to just continue with the story, but Sitwell’s mannerisms bothered Steve more than they rightly should. The agent was so dismissive, his eyes swimming like piranhas behind his glasses, and his lips pressed into a judgmental, straight line.

“You must understand, Captain,” Sitwell said through a sigh. He had that arrogant tone to him that came with a condescending wobble of the head. It made Steve not even bother to correct Sitwell on using Steve’s old military title. “Barnes was an exceptional agent.” Clearly, there was a ‘but’ coming, and Steve did his best to remain calm and steel himself against whatever insult Sitwell had prepared.

“But,” Sitwell continued, “he was still a Soviet. Born and bred.”

“He’s _Romanian_.”

“Which was already in Communist hands before Barnes was born,” Sitwell reasoned. “I do understand the difference,” Sitwell finished before Steve could say otherwise. Steve really didn’t think he did. The SHIELD agent didn’t strike Steve as the sort that understood that not all situations could be filed into black and white. Shades of grey existed, and it was in that strange monochrome world that Barnes functioned.

“But you must understand the stance our government is forced to take on these things.”

“I don’t think I want to.” Steve crossed his arms over his chest and breathed in deep. “It seems overly bigoted.”

Rationally, he knew what Sitwell was doing. He was trying to antagonize Steve into saying something condemning; something that would put a smear across Barnes’ name and drag Steve’s own through the mud. Steve hated how much it made sense to him now, and how much clearer he could see the intention behind the SHIELD agent’s actions. It was one thing to admit that an agent had been lost in the line of duty, but another entirely to acknowledge that the American government had all but left Barnes out in the cold. With Barnes alive and actively helping Steve on his mission, it tainted the reputation and integrity of the CIA.

“Barnes’ work has been a gift to the Western countries,” Sitwell reasoned. Steve felt like the man was trying to placate him with pretty words and hollow compliments. “One could say that he helped to shape the century.” Steve could practically taste the second _but_ that was coming, and he did his best to breathe out now and relax as much as he could. He couldn’t let Sitwell get under his skin. Not about this.

“But,” Sitwell added before a small pause. His eyes were searching Steve’s and Steve dug his nails into the underside of his bicep to stop from reaching across the table and throttling the insolent man. “When agents spend so long undercover and on their home turf, no less, there is always cause to question allegiance.”

And that was it. The punchline. Steve felt it like a fist to the gut, and for a moment, he was almost certain that he couldn’t even breathe.

“You think Barnes was selling you out to the Soviets.” It was more of an accusation muttered in disbelief than a question, but Steve still waited for an answer.

“Nothing is for certain,” Sitwell reasoned. “And without-”

“Let’s me ask you this,” Steve interrupted. He didn’t want to hear any more; couldn’t hear any more of Sitwell’s antagonistic remarks. Barnes was a lot of things, and not all of them were good. Steve had found that out the hard way during their time off the grid in the Soviet Union. But Barnes wasn’t a traitor. Not in the way Sitwell wanted to paint him, at least. “How did Barnes get caught?” Steve asked.

“That’s classified.” Something about the way Sitwell spoke made Steve wonder if he even knew. There had been a lot of blacked out lines and paragraphs in the file Steve had found. Clearly, that was only a tiny part of what Barnes had been involved in during the years.

“With all due respect, Agent,” Steve said. His tone plainly lacked all respect. “There seems to be a lot about Barnes and his missions that you haven’t been briefed on. Now, we can sit here and debate the ins and outs of his past missions, or shall I just continue?”

*****

Steve woke with a start, his body tensing as clarity chased the fogginess of sleep from his mind. He wasn’t sure what had disturbed him, but as he blinked his eyes against the gloom, he couldn’t help but get the feeling that something was wrong.

Some habits tended to die hard, and Steve had long since adjusted to waking up fast. Back in the conflict zones of Vietnam, being fuzzy and confused after a rest up could mark the difference between life and death.

Alert and focused, the first big thing that Steve noticed was that Barnes was gone.

It appealed to a world of fears he had in his mind. While part of him did panic for the safety of his companion, Steve’s issues were more profound than that. Barnes was more than capable of taking care of himself, and if death was knocking at the door of the gulag, then Steve was sure that Barnes wouldn’t have been taken by surprise. Not silently, at least, and not without waking Steve first.

Steve’s fears were more selfish than heroic. His mind thought of being left alone, and that was the most significant issue and had his palms sweaty despite the cold. It would be so easy for Barnes to decide to leave and, in so doing, abandon Steve in the middle of nowhere. It would be a death sentence, and while it wasn’t the idea of death itself that scared Steve, it was the feeling of hopelessness that concerned him. Coulson had been right when he’d told Steve that this life was well outside of Steve’s usual world and expertise.

Fearing the worst, Steve rolled himself up onto his knees before climbing to his feet. His bones and joints ached. The cold caused all old wounds to hurt, and sleeping on the floor was only marginally better than sleeping sitting up in the cramped cab of their truck.

Steve didn’t take the time to stretch and instead reached down to snag his blanket. He draped it over his shoulders while shuffling as quietly as he could towards the door. The cold only intensified the moment he stepped outside but seeing the soft gleam of the truck parked in one of the almost ruined barracks made him feel better. It meant that Barnes hadn’t up and taken off on him; not even Barnes would be able to survive out in this weather without transport.

That, of course, still left the question of where the hell Barnes had disappeared off to.

It didn’t take long for Steve to get his answer. He’d stuck to the edges of the buildings, where the dirt was more compact, and the mud hadn’t set in. Snow had fallen overnight. Not enough to turn the haunting place into a nightmarish parody of a winter wonderland, but enough to leave white flakes on the roofs and crumbling debris. The rest had melted into the already thick slush that marked the coming of the Russian winter.

As Steve avoided a slippery puddle, he finally spotted Barnes. He stood in the shadows of the building, but the light of the moon still couldn’t resist highlighting the ends of his hair or the soft slump of his shoulders. He was clearly cold, hunched over and tucked up in his jacket in a way that made Steve want to offer his own for extra warmth.

Not for the first time, Steve looked at Barnes and sighed softly. The other man looked like something out of a painting, or a person ripped from the pages of a fantasy novel or a spy thriller. There was something predatory about how Barnes stood there. His head was angled up, his eyes locked on what Steve guessed to be the stars. It made the messy knot of a bun he kept his hair in shine. It was crazy. Steve knew for sure that Barnes hadn’t washed his hair in weeks – and he knew this as he was suffering the same lack of proper hygiene – but that didn’t stop Steve’s fingers from twitching at his side. He told himself that it was because he wanted to sketch the silhouette that Barnes made, and not because he wanted to run his hands through Barnes’ hair, dirty or not.

“Barnes?” Steve asked. It was so hard not to say anything else. Not to let the syllables of Barnes’ nickname ghost over his tongue.

He was sure that Barnes knew of his presence already, but he hadn’t moved, and Steve gathered it was best to announce his presence just in case. He didn’t want the brute force of the Winter Soldier bearing down on him in the middle of the night.

“Shhhh,” Barnes shushed.

Steve frowned and did as he was told while shuffling closer. Barnes might have been chasing a moment alone, and Steve might have ruined that, but the damage was already done. Besides, Barnes didn’t seem the type to really just soak in nature and moonlight.

The seconds ticked by, turning into minutes and Steve managed to keep his mouth shut a lot longer than he thought himself capable.

“What-?” Barnes cut him off with a lift of his hand, and only a second later, his fingers curled until he was pointing up at the sky. His head tilted to the side; like a cat listening to the soft scratching of a mouse in the walls.

“Hear that?” Barnes whispered, causing Steve to lift an eyebrow. Apparently, Barnes _was_ like a cat, and he was out here listening to something undetectable.

Only, the more Steve concentrated and when he took the time to hold his breath slightly, then yes, he could hear that. He would have thought it was all in his head if Barnes hadn’t been standing beside him, looking at him just as quizzically.

Steve nodded as a deep frown settled between his eyebrows. He’d recognize that sound anywhere. The rhythmic whir; the mechanical hum in the dark of the night. It was a subtle disturbance when in the distance and he had no clue how Barnes had picked up on it, but once up close, the sound was the sort that could drown out gunfire and an erratic heartbeat.

“I’d say a Mil Mi-8,” Steve reasoned. He’d heard a lot of them in the jungle. They came just as deadly and sneaky as booby traps in the swamps and caused as much destruction as any open conflict. “Twin turbine, but it’s riding heavy.” Steve could tell by the amped-up rotation of the blades. “Either it’s carrying a lot of passengers, or it’s fitted out as a gunship.”

He looked over to Barnes and almost bit his tongue. His companion wore an expression Steve had never seen before. A raised eyebrow and a quirk of the lips. Barnes was impressed.

Steve tried not to blush like a foolish teenager and struggled to keep his mind in the game at hand.

“What would a soviet war-chopper be doing out here?” he mused. “Unless…”

Barnes nodded and hunched further into his jacket, as if the very words he was about to speak froze him to the bone. “They’re searching for something,” he offered. “It’s not exactly a commercial flight path, Steve,” Barnes said with a roll of his eyes. The words were spat out, harsh even; as if he was calling Steve out on a stupid question. Only, unlike most times Barnes got into one of his moods, this time he seemed to flinch at himself.

Barnes shook his head, his hand moving to rub at the back of his neck. Steve had started to see that as a nervous reaction. What Barnes said next almost knocked Steve over backwards.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. He sounded tired. Defeated. Steve frowned as Barnes’ eyes scanned the horizon as he tucked his hands into the edges of his jacket. “I’m just being paranoid,” he added. “It’s not like there’s any blazing paper trail showing where to find us. It’s probably just a routine fl-”

Those words had Steve getting that weird sensation. The one where nerves and anticipation took over and made it feel like his heart was sinking fast and hitting rock bottom down in his stomach.

“Shit,” he swore.

“What?”

Steve cast a worried look in Barnes’ direction before frowning and shaking his head a little. Surely not. But then… it would make sense.

“What, Rogers?” Barnes pressed. The first tinges of anger were creeping into his voice, as well as a sense of panic that Steve didn’t like to hear. He could deal with Barnes’ temper – it was the majority of his personality – but fear was something that Steve hadn’t ever expected to hear, and it struck a part of him that he hadn’t known existed.

“My room,” Steve said slowly. “I had a map. At the hotel. And my notes.” He felt like he was digging his own grave just by saying those words out loud.

For an eery moment, nothing happened. Barnes just looked at him and Steve? Well, he contemplated the silly notion that Barnes hadn’t heard him. Or maybe that he had, and that Steve’s words were no cause to worry. After all, it wasn’t like some shady government agency would go sneaking through some random hotel room.

Steve felt his heart sink at the stupidity of his own reasoning. Of course, they would have. Steve had only booked the room for a week, and that was now weeks ago. He never checked out; he’d left all his belongings there and disappeared without a word. Barnes had crushed all the bugs and listening devices in the room as well, which would have already set off the _Securitate_ , and they, ever the loyal agents that they were, would have contacted their Soviet cousins.

Hell, Steve was sure that there would even be a clue or two to link him with Barnes. Dark eyes sketched into the side of his notebook, or question marked codenames and a series of enlistment numbers that Steve had never seemed to forget.

“Fuck!” Barnes hissed, stealing the word straight out of Steve’s mouth. While Steve froze with the realization of his own mistake, Barnes was physically explosive, his arms slicing through the air and his booted foot kicking at a crumbling slab of concrete. “Shit. Fuck, Rogers! Why would- ergh!” he snarled again.

This was bad. Steve knew it; Barnes clearly knew it. The only thing that Steve didn’t understand was why he hadn’t thought about this earlier. Why he hadn’t remembered the map he’d tucked in between his mattress and the base of the bed, or how he’d absentmindedly doodled pictures of towering stones and mountains around Russian names that he couldn’t pronounce.

Barnes looked like he was ready to explode and now, bathed in moonlight as he was, he looked more like the villain than the ethereal protagonist from one of the stories Steve had imagined when first seeing him.

“You got shot in the head!” Steve hissed back as his mind tried to put all the pieces together. He could still remember the way that Barnes had crumpled to the ground in that alleyway after that fateful gunshot, and even with Barnes’ fury bearing down on him, Steve still shuddered at the memory.

“Oh, don’t go making this about me.”

“I’m not!” The look Barnes was giving him clearly suggested he believed otherwise. “Just. It was a stressful time, and I couldn’t go dragging you back to the hotel with blood everywhere.” It was Steve’s turn to scratch at the back of his neck nervously. “I hadn’t left the room thinking I wouldn’t be coming back.”

That had been a mistake, Barnes didn’t need to spell the issues out for him. Steve should have been more prepared. He should have always left the room like it would be his last time, or with the paranoid notion that someone would come in and rummage through his belongings while he was gone. It was a rookie error; Steve could see that now, but there was no changing the past.

“What do we do?” he asked. Steve was already sure that Barnes would have a plan. He was fast on his feet, and he had the skill set to match. It was like they’d discussed just a few hours beforehand; the differences between them and the wars they’d fought. Steve wasn’t useless – he knew that despite what Barnes probably liked to think – but this was Barnes world. Choppers in the night reminded Steve of Vietnam, but back then, the only course of action was to dig in deep and hold still until the sound faded. It wasn’t so much of a deadly game of cat and mouse as it was about being smart and keeping your head down.

Out here, dealing with whoever the Soviet government would send to hunt them down went beyond what Steve felt comfortable calling the shots for.

“Shut up, I’m thinking.” The words came out as one long slur, and Barnes’ hand was up rubbing at the back of his neck again. It was like a nervous tick and Steve was damned because there was a large part of him that wanted to reach out and help. To offer to massage that tension out of the back of Barnes’ shoulders and help him relax. Help him think with a clear head.

That, of course, was well out of the question, and Steve was pretty sure that any movement towards Barnes right now would result in a painful death.

“We can’t move now,” Barnes finally sighed. He sounded defeated, but not pacified. “Any light will set them off.” Steve watched as he looked from the sky to the horizon and back again. The weight of decision sat heavily between his brows.

“We should turn around,” Barnes concluded. Steve frowned. “They know your plans. They know where we’re going. It’s over.”

Steve couldn’t subscribe to that. There had to be another way. If he’d somehow led the enemy to the location of this mythical weapon, he’d never forgive himself. Hell, if that was true, the chances of civilization surviving the discovery were astronomically minute, and Steve wasn’t ready to go and condemn the world because of his own reckless mistake.

“If this thing is real-”

“If!” Bucky interrupted. “If. There are so many _if’s_ , Steve!”

Steve really did understand, and he could sympathize with Barnes’ stance on the situation. Steve wasn’t even sure if he believed in it all himself. But Steve had been there. He’d seen the way his government had pounced on the idea, and he’d seen the sketches and notes of a weapon that was – while hypothetical – enough to have his blood run cold. Barnes hadn’t seen any of that, and the spy spent so much time distancing himself from outside agendas, that it only made sense that he’d take everything with a grain of salt. He didn’t understand the fear that Steve felt, just as Steve could never understand Barnes’ own.

“If,” Steve started only to sigh. That was a terrible starting word. “Say that chopper is out looking for us, then that means it’s not just me betting on this staff being real.”

Barnes didn’t look convinced. “Or, and much more likely, they’re after the dumbass American who decided to sneak across closed borders, and the resurrected spy that was fucking _stupid_ enough to help him.”

Steve would never admit it, but that was also a good point and a high possibility. Honestly, Steve didn’t know which option would be worse. He knew what Barnes would hope for.

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” Steve wanted to bury his head in the sand the moment he understood the words coming out of his own mouth. That was so stupid. So very, very stupid!

As expected, Barnes pounced on the sappy words like a Siberian tiger hungry for blood. 

“Oh, you’re _so_ noble,” Barnes snarked. He was about as theatrical as Steve had ever seen him as he clutched at his heart over dramatically. “My big fucking hero. Gonna keep poor, defenceless me safe, huh?” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Steve tried, but the words sounded like a lie even to him. Part of him had meant the promise exactly the way Barnes had taken it, and it was hard to face the mockery of his own bullshit.

Thankfully, Barnes didn’t give him too much more time to contemplate the twisted workings of his own mind.

“You wouldn’t last a fucking day in Lubyanka. And if this,” Barnes hissed while pointing up at the sky. Steve understood his meaning. “ _When_ this,” Barnes corrected, “goes the way I know it will, and the KGB comes crashing down on us, you’re on your fucking own.

“I’m not dying for you and your cause, and I’m sure as hell not going back with them alive.”

Steve felt like he’d been slapped in the face as Barnes stalked away. He was left reeling, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as the weight of Barnes’ words set in.

The worst thing was that Steve couldn’t blame him. He’d been fooling himself in thinking that he and Barnes were finding common ground and growing together as a unit. Barnes was the notorious Winter Soldier; quite possibly the best agent either side of the Cold War had ever known, and the fact that Steve had managed to get him this far was a miracle. It was nothing more than a series of unfortunate events, and the vague idea of doing the right thing that tied them together. But when faced with personal consequences that, especially in Barnes’ case, were worse than death, Steve couldn’t expect the spy to have any other outlook on the situation. Just as Steve would rather die than go back to the warzones of the Vietnam jungle, falling back into the hands of the Soviet government wasn’t an option for Barnes.

As Barnes walked away, Steve felt all that leeway they’d made earlier in the night crumble. It sat like ash in his mouth and made him feel dirty.

Rolling his eyes heavenwards, Steve stared at the stars and prayed not to hear the whir of helicopter blades in the night. 

*****

**Chapter XIII Preview**

It wasn’t that Steve feared the locals. They were clearly farmers and nomads, living so far off the grid that they – hopefully – had no political agenda. But it was the sound of helicopters that Steve feared, and the idea that the interest their arrival had sparked might have been born from other recent encounters.

There was no telling who might be lurking in the back of shops, and the idea of sending Barnes in alone didn’t sit well with Steve.

As soon as Barnes slipped out of the truck, Steve reached into the back and pulled one of Barnes rifles into the footwell of his seat. Just in case. If things got heated and Barnes came out running, then Steve was damn well going to be prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keeping this short as I have a million things to do! As always, I do love to read your comments and thoughts! They’ll give me something to do and smile about while in transit and forced quarantine.


	14. Part XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a Free Range Minka once again! 
> 
> I’m not going to go into the trials and tribulations of the last few weeks here, but for anyone interested, I did do a [reflection blog about what being in enforced quarantine was like](http://minkawrites.com/covid-19-quarantine-in-australia-master-post/). 
> 
> Which brings me to the next thing. [I started a blog](http://minkawrites.com/a-blog/). God knows what I’m actually going to put there or use it for, but I have a few random ideas to explore. Most of it will be about fic writing, and how to plot and plan insane ideas and writing dialogue etc. As well as some sneak peeks on what I have sitting in my WIP folders and coming up. And then just pointless crap that I feel like doing. 
> 
> Also, it is where I’m keeping track of my Bucky Barnes Bingo card. [You can see that and the fills here](http://minkawrites.com/bbb-card/). 
> 
> Which, finally. I’m using this chapter to fill in **B2 - Road Trip** square! This is the chapter that I often referred to as The Top Gear (Grand Tour) Adventure Special! I love this chapter. I really do. And I love that it officially broke my beta reader as well. I got comments back like “OMG! They touched!!!!!” and “That was sweet; how are you going to ruin it?” 
> 
> So… enjoy! Lol.

# Part XIII

“For fuck's sake!” Barnes hissed, his hands slapping furiously at the wheel. His foot pushed down on the accelerator again, and the truck lurched, its wheels churning nothing but mud. It was a short-lived attempt to move, and Barnes quickly killed the ignition with another curse, this time clearly in Russian. Steve felt like he should be offended, or that maybe he should be trying to defend his mother or something. Barnes’ head flopped back to hit the back of the seat as he looked imploring up at the roof of the truck.

Steve sighed and pulled his jacket closer around his shoulders. That was his cue to get to work. He pushed the door open and climbed out, his nose turning up at the push of less than fresh air. His boots instantly sank in the mud with a sickening squelch and Steve tried not to think of _red_ and tropical leaves.

It had been like this for days now. Stop; start; sink and bog. Barnes spat and cursed like a sailor, and Steve resolved himself to face his fears of wet dirt.

Steve was doing his best to deal with Barnes’ moods. He was a tolerant person; a patient man and Steve was sure that no one could fault him for not trying. But Barnes was a button pusher. He liked to stretch and pull at Steve’s limits, and what’s more, Steve was sure that Barnes knew that he got under Steve’s skin. Steve was also convinced that Barnes got a form of sick, twisted pleasure out of it.

The last few days had been borderline insufferable. After the gulag revelation that they were being followed, any personal progress that he and Barnes had made had been shredded away. They were back to curt grimaces and monosyllabic grunts that acted as sentences. Barnes’ mood was like a dark cloud, hanging heavy and low and choking the air out of Steve’s lungs with a single look.

Steve understood where Barnes was coming from. He knew that Barnes was pissed about the information leak, and the catastrophic ramifications it could have, but that didn’t make their stony silence any easier. Perturbed as it all sounded, it also didn’t justify the harsh bend in his attitude. Even when Barnes was being friendly, he was still a prickly, complex person to deal with, so when he was gunning to be mean, it became even harder to cope.

Their current location didn’t help their tempers much either.

Vasyugan Swamp was a sprawling wasteland of deep watery ruts and hidden rocks. It was the sort of place where no sane person wanted to go, which summed up their reasons for being there rather nicely.

With the certainty that the KGB knew the basics of Steve’s planned route through the Soviet Union, as well as the places that he’d marked as possible locations for Chernobog’s staff, they’d had to take drastic actions. The helicopter had hovered the entire night they’d stayed at the gulag, and the sound of it kept whirring well past dawn. It had kept them pinned to their cover. Any attempt to drive out onto the roads would have garnered unwanted attention and brought the search party down on their heads. They were too far off the trodden path to be mistaken for simple farmers or travellers.

It had led to a tense morning with neither of them willing to leave the building they’d found themselves trapped in. All it would take was a set of keen eyes peering down a sniper scope or through binoculars to see one of them dashing between the abandoned remains and the game would be over.

They’d poured over the map, Barnes was adamant that they find a different route, or they turn back. It was silently known that if Steve didn’t agree to turn back that Barnes would leave him. That was just a given, so Steve had done his best to try and follow the sketchy lines of long-abandoned Soviet roads. He had no clue how up to date the map was, and if the situation down south was anything to go by, half the roads marked would no longer exist, while other unmarked ones would lead them in opposite directions. At least Steve was handy with a compass, and they’d found one in the glove compartment of the truck.

Once they’d deemed it safe to move on – the sound of the helicopter gone for hours – they’d doubled back the way they’d come before parking in for the night. They were out in the open, but there were enough hills and rocks to help hide their position. The following morning, they’d taken a different route back east. It would snake them towards the south-east, close to the Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic border, and then they could strike north from there towards their next location. The extended journey was meant to add four to five days to the trip, but it would take them well off the path outlined in Steve’s original maps.

What they hadn’t counted on was the weather.

They hadn’t intentionally aimed for the Vasyugan Swamp, but rasputitsa had set in with deadly force, expanding the boundaries of the already perilous area far beyond what they’d expected. Long before the swamp was due to start, their chosen road started to bog down, and half a day after that, they’d managed to find themselves right in the thick of the marsh. The road seemed to vanish under their very tyres, and before they even had the chance to try and turn around, they were rims deep in the putrid muck.

Barnes seemed to know a lot about driving in the mud and snow, but even that wasn’t helping them. He’d briefly muttered about how lightly pumping the accelerator to rock the car helped in the snow; it would edge them forward millimetre by millimetre, and for the first day, that had worked. It made for a nauseating, agonisingly slow ride, but at least they were moving.

They’d spent the night in tense silence in the front of the jeep. It was too damp and wet to try and camp anywhere on the ground, and the few times that Steve had tried to light a fire to at least heat the tins of Soviet spam that made up the majority of their meals had all ended in disaster. 

The next day, Barnes had managed to drag a sizeable tree root free, and they used that as a chock at the back of the wheel for when the mud wasn’t too bad. He could roll the truck back until the wheels hit the wood, and then use that as a sort of springboard to push them forward. It only worked when one side of the car was still free of the bog, and when there was at least something solid that they could anchor the branch too.

The predicted four days had turned into six, and now, on their fifth day of what Steve considered his own personal hell, they were predicting at least another two to get them to solid ground.

It wasn’t just the tension between them that strained the situation. Supplies were once again dwindling, hungry bellies pushing them both toward breaking point. Even worse was the fuel situation. Churning wheels and daredevil handbrake starts ate their petrol at an alarming rate, and they’d already burned through three-quarters of their reserve drums. With no chance for stocking up in sight, they had to change their approach and consider each push of the accelerator. As painful as it was to be bogged down, it would be even worse if they ran out of fuel; their supplies weren’t made to be hauled over ground and by foot.

It left them relying more on brute strength, which, while good for their fuel, was terrible for their physical and mental constitution.

Steve already hated mud, and while the grunt work of digging a wheel out of the unstable ground did help him differentiate this hell from Vietnam, each time his boots sank down deep, he felt the flutter of blind panic in his heart. What if someone started shooting at them? What if there was a landmine sunk deep within the soft earth; there’d be nothing he could do.

It was with those thoughts running rampant in his mind that Steve slipped and stumbled his way around the back of the truck. For such a light thing – most Soviet vehicles were little better than plastic with wheels – it sure as hell sank fast and far.

Crouching down with his hand on the back bumper, Steve surveyed the damage. The right rear wheel had hit a rock that the tyre traction was too slippery to grip to, and that had tipped the balance, pushing the left deep into the Siberian slop.

By the time he was straightening up, Barnes was trudging his way off to the left, his shoulders hunched and his head set low. It was the walk of a man with nothing but anger left to live for. Steve sighed and reached into the back cab to pull out a shovel, distracting himself from that nagging want to try to soothe Barnes’ bristled feathers.

That was the most annoying thing about all this; or at least, that was what Steve decided as he started his battle against the sludge. The shovel seemed to dig up as much as it let fall back in, and sometimes Steve was sure that he was scooping out earth he’d only just tossed over his shoulder. It was annoying, but it wasn’t what made him frown.

He liked Barnes, and it was quite possibly the dumbest, most irrational thing that his mind had ever set itself upon.

Maybe it was something like Stockholm Syndrome. Spend enough time with anyone and you were bound to either bond or murder each other. Steve still wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t wake up to Barnes trying to smother him or slit his throat as he slept, but since that hadn’t happened yet – and Steve had no intention of being the murderer – his brain seemed to have latched onto the other option.

Barnes was annoying, and he was dark and brooded more than Steve thought possible. But Steve had come to understand that. It still pissed him off, and Barnes’ current weeklong tantrum about Steve’s blunder back in Bucharest certainly pushed the limits of Steve’s patience, but the whole thing was so typically _Barnes_ that Steve couldn’t begrudge it.

Honestly, if Barnes had already gotten over his hissy fit and had started acting chummy, then Steve would never sleep again. He wouldn’t be able to for fear of retribution wrapped up within a trickster smile.

Shovelling another sloppy glob of earth out of the way, Steve saw Barnes trudging back towards the truck. He had several rocks in his arms, and what looked like a semi-stable branch, and maybe Steve would have said something affirmative about the stack of supplies if Barnes hadn’t almost landed on his ass when his foot hit an overly slippery patch.

Steve dug his shovel in and pretended that he hadn’t noticed.

On top of the issues Barnes’ had with Steve’s mistake, it had also become readily apparent that he wasn’t overly suited to this lifestyle. That had made Steve smirk. Obviously in the dark and when Barnes wasn’t looking, but it was a smirk nonetheless.

Steve had no illusion about Barnes being some prissy city slicker. He’d clearly spent time going through his SERE C training which would have covered a lot of land survival, but this, finally, was something out of his element. Even better, it was something that Steve was somewhat accustomed to. Barnes knew the snow, and he knew the rasputitsa mud, but it was clear that he was used to dealing with it in a more contained, civilised location. He’d exhausted his book of tricks back when the going wasn’t so rough, and there was still more road than swamp.

Now, it was starting to wear on him, and Steve took an odd sort of pleasure in being the one with the ideas for a change. Barnes excelled at covert and sneaky, and Steve was sure that there wasn’t a street in any city on earth where he wouldn’t be able to blend in or disappear, but out here in the wilderness, Barnes was just as out of place as Steve had been in Bucharest.

They worked together, silent in the routine that they knew well by now. Steve dug, and Barnes shifted the rocks into the space behind the wheel. The wood was forced in underneath to give traction. After that, they rolled the original stone out from behind the right tyre and, after some contemplation which involved Steve crawling through the mud while Barnes sucked down a cigarette, they decided it best to keep building. They plotted the path out of the sinkhole, and built ramps of rock and wood through the worst patches and back up onto what appeared to be solid ground.

It took the better part of an hour of sweat-inducing labour, and by the time they were done, Steve felt like he was overheating even in the cold. Barnes had his hair up in a topknot, trying to keep the majority of it off his neck, and Steve did his best not to stare while reminding himself of his Stockholm Syndrome conclusion from earlier.

Finally, they deemed their path out of mud solid, and Barnes did his best not to slip over on his way back to the driver’s seat. Steve did his best not to find the slip and slide of Barnes’ walk too endearing.

Standing off to the side, Steve heard the engine tick into place as Barnes fired it up. The truck lurched; the wheels spun, and mud splashed. The vehicle bunny-hopped forward before sagging back down as the wheels struggled to find traction. Barnes tried again only for the engine to stall. Steve could hear him cursing from outside.

With a sigh, Steve moved in and grabbed at the back of the truck, rocking it forward gently in an attempt to ease it up onto the more structurally sound part of their makeshift ramp. Barnes seemed to instantly know what was happening, and he started pumping the accelerator in the short little bursts that had gotten them through at the start. Slowly, it began to work, and with one more push, the truck was on its way.

It revved hard, the wheels skidding, and Steve was met with a backlash of splattered mud as it flew off the tyres. Bent over and pushing as he was, the bulk of it hit Steve right in the face.

Somehow, Steve still got the feeling that Barnes did it deliberately.

Steve spat a foul-tasting, brown-tinged mouthful to the ground as Barnes pulled the jeep to a stop up on some stable ground. Resigned to his fate, Steve trudged after it and hauled himself into the passenger seat. He didn’t miss the look Barnes sent his way, or the smug lift of his eyebrow as he took in Steve’s state.

“Feel better?” Steve asked as he tried to wipe the mud from his face. The rag in his hand was already crusty and brown with the muck, so it didn’t offer much relief.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barnes said innocently.

Part of Steve really wanted to slap Barnes. Wipe that cocky, smug look clear off his face. Steve was sure the few seconds he was alive afterwards would be worth it, just to see the shock on Barnes’ face. It was clear he wasn’t used to people standing up to him or being game enough to put him in his place.

Though, another part of Steve was helpless. It focused on how that was the most Barnes had said to him in six days. Stupidly enough, that made Steve smile.

“As long as you’re enjoying yourself,” Steve smirked and faintly – ever so faintly – he could see the sides of Barnes’ mouth twitch in a ghost of a grin.

Maybe they’d be alright after all.

*****

Two days later, they found the town of Bushuyevo.

Little more than two streets off the side of the muddy road, it wasn’t on the weather-beaten map that Steve pulled out of the glovebox. The only way they knew the name was thanks to the decrepit sign that marked the invisible town limit. One of its support posts had rotten through, leaving the wooden plate all but dangling in the snowy sludge. It looked haunting, and if it wasn’t for the fresh tracks in the snowy road and the smoke rising from chimneys, Steve would have put money on the place being a ghost town. Just another skeleton of a life left behind, ruined by the hardship of the oppressive regime.

They’d sat in silence in the car a few kilometres away, both silently contemplating the choice in front of them. To Steve’s surprise, it was Barnes who finally spoke first.

“We need fuel,” he said simply.

That really was the deciding factor. They were running on empty, and if it wasn’t this town, then it would have to be one soon. Considering this was the first sign of life they’d seen in over a week, neither one of them was too comfortable with the idea of flogging their gas in the hopes of finding somewhere else.

They rolled into the town slowly. At the sound of the car, the locals popped heads out of homes and wandered out of the single general store. Steve had never felt so conspicuous in his life, and given the places they’d recently been, that was saying a lot.

“Wait here,” Barnes instructed.

Steve didn’t like the idea of separating and Barnes going in alone, but he felt better when he saw Barnes slip one of his handguns into the holster he wore under his arm. Steve also saw the shine of his knives near his belt. At least Barnes wasn’t going in helpless.

It wasn’t that Steve feared the locals. They were clearly farmers and nomads, living so far off the grid that they – hopefully – had no political agenda. But it was the sound of helicopters that Steve feared, and the idea that the interest their arrival had sparked might have been born from other recent encounters.

There was no telling who might be lurking in the back of shops, and the idea of sending Barnes in alone didn’t sit well with Steve.

As soon as Barnes slipped out of the truck, Steve reached into the back and pulled one of Barnes rifles into the footwell of his seat. Just in case. If things got heated and Barnes came out running, then Steve was damn well going to be prepared.

The seconds turned into minutes, each one dragging on agonisingly slow. Steve could feel his nerves starting to get the better of him. What was taking so long? Why had Barnes gone into the general store and why the hell wasn’t he at least standing near a window so Steve could see he was alright?

Finally, after the longest ten minutes of Steve’s life, Barnes came out of the building and almost lost his footing in the mud. Steve would have laughed if he hadn’t been so on edge. He watched as Barnes laughed it off, saying something over his shoulder while waving towards a woman who handled the mud a lot better than Barnes did.

It wasn’t until Barnes was climbing back into the driver’s seat that Steve sighed out loud. Barnes shot him a puzzled look while blowing warm air into his hands.

“Good news and bad news,” Barnes said. He didn’t speak until he had the door closed and made sure the window was rolled up. There were still eyes watching them, and Steve felt proud that he noticed Barnes’ mannerisms. Barnes was casual and calm, but he hid his mouth with his arm by scratching at his neck. It was doubtful that any of the townsfolk spoke English, but with the way they were all watching the two of them, it was likely that they’d notice the unknown movements of Barnes’ words.

Steve didn’t trust himself to pull off the covert conversation, so he simply nodded and let Barnes’ continue.

“We can get fuel, and I’ve gotten us a place to clean up and sleep for the night,” Barnes said as he made a point of fiddling with the ignition, his head down and obscured.

That sounded like good and good news to Steve, so he braced himself for the bad.

“But we’re not where we wanted to be,” Barnes broke Steve’s hopes. “Tell ya later,” he said as the truck puttered back into life.

Clearly, he’d been given directions and pulled the truck into a slow rumble, coasting through the mud churned streets with as little noise as possible. There was no possible way they could get lost, and Barnes pulled up on the single road parallel to the main drag and in front of an old farmhouse.

It was the sort of place that Steve found terrifying. There was a homely, warm glow coming from the slats in the wooden shutters, and the place had a porch that would be lovely to sit on during the warmer months. It was full of old-world charm and antique charisma and honestly looked like the sort of place that Steve would break if he so much as sneezed.

If Barnes had the same fear of barrelling into something fragile, he didn’t show it. He twisted and turned in the truck, packing select items into select bags. Clearly, he wanted to know exactly where everything was at any given time, and Steve saw the merit in that. Plus, it wouldn’t have been smart for Barnes to go walking around with an assault rifle over his shoulder, just as it wouldn’t have been wise to leave the weapons sitting in the car.

Steve made to help, but the space between their seats was tight at best. Barnes slapped him away and instead tossed the old beanie he’d made Steve wear at the start of their journey into Steve’s lap.

“Same as Georgia,” Barnes said, referring to the cover story they’d used back in the Socialist Republic. Steve nodded, slipping the battered beanie onto his head with a grimace. He was smart enough to know that there wasn’t going to be running hot water out here in the sticks, but he’d still honestly welcome anything. Even just a bucket of ice water over the head would be bliss right now. Despite all the snow and mud, clean water had been a struggle out in the marshes, leaving both Steve and Barnes sweat incrusted and grimy. 

“Don’t speak. Don’t-”

“I remember,” Steve said. He grinned to soften any perceived blow that his interruption might have caused. “I’m the dumb friend. I got it.”

“Cousin,” Barnes corrected with the slightest ghost of a smile. “Dumb _cousin_. Gotta have that family connection to make it plausible that I keep you around.” Steve should have been insulted, but he could see lines around Barnes’ eyes as that ghost of a smile stretched far enough that he couldn’t hide it. It was their own twisted in-joke. Steve rolled his eyes and pulled the beanie onto his head and made a point of letting his jaw go slack, and his limbs drop. 

Once they were packed up and Steve did his best to look uncoordinated getting out of the car, Barnes lead them towards the farmstead door, calling out a word that Steve guessed might be a name.

As it turned out, Barnes had charmed his way into the lives of an elderly woman and what Steve gathered was her daughter, and they’d found themselves with a barn to sleep in for the night. Steve played his part as the brain-damaged relation and tried not to look too interested every time Barnes said something that was obviously about him.

The elderly woman seemed to like patting people on the arm. She did it to Steve a few times as she guided them towards the barn, and even pulled the same move on Barnes. Steve wondered if she’d ever realise how close she was to death. Barnes didn’t like to be touched, and Steve could see the rigid tensing of his back. It was amazing that he kept himself under control.

The younger woman didn’t speak, but Steve saw the way she watched. She was like a hawk, her eyes darting from Steve to Barnes and back again. Steve did his best to keep his head down and concentrate on his limp, and thankfully she quickly turned all her attention to Barnes. She smiled when her mother spoke, and blushed when Barnes said something back, and irrational as it was, Steve found himself limping up next to his companion. He wasn’t trying to block the girl's view or anything, and he certainly wasn’t jealous of the way she eyed Barnes up and down. At least that’s what Steve told himself.

In her defence, she probably didn’t see too many outsiders, and even then, Steve would bet not many people rolled into town who looked like Barnes. Especially not when he had his friendly face on. That was an entirely different sight even for Steve. Barnes was all smiles and soft eyes, his entire demeanour altered. He no longer walked like an armed man ready to take on the world, and he had a habit of tucking his chin down slightly when he smiled. It almost looked bashful; the perfect representation of the sort of man a young woman would like to bring home to her parents. Confident but innocent; strong but chaste.

Steve was thankful that they weren’t being hosted in the house. Not only did it look like it had been made with sticks, but it meant that they were able to keep their privacy. It would have been hard for him and Barnes to communicate under a roof filled with eager ears and infatuated attention.

As far as farm barns went, the one offered to them was pretty decent. Steve couldn’t say that he’d been in many during his lifetime, but he’d always figured them for rickety old things that were full of rats and horse shit. This place had solid walls and a proper roof, and while the stench of animal dung did linger, it wasn’t any worse than the smell of the swamp they’d suffered through. Hell, Steve was almost sure that he and Barnes were probably the most horrendously smelling things in the shed.

Their host directed them to a loft over the horse stables. The mother kept looking towards Steve and gesturing to the ladder, and while Steve didn’t understand the words, he got the gist of things, especially when Barnes said something that sounded reassuring. He guessed Barnes was assuring her that he’d be able to get Steve up the ladder, what with his condition and all.

Steve made a point of leaning against the wall and trying to look like he wasn’t paying attention.

The exchange lasted through what seemed like a lot of pleasantries and ended with the daughter handing Barnes a stack of blankets that looked well used, but warm. Barnes was all smiles and bashful nods and as try as Steve might, he found it hard to not watch him too closely.

Once it all was all over, and the door closed, Barnes’ act dropped. Steve could see it physically falling from his body, and by the time Barnes had turned to face him, he was standing upright with his chin held high and his shoulders squared.

Steve grinned and pushed himself off the wall, meeting Barnes in the middle of the open room.

“They’re sweet,” Barnes said casually. Steve raised an eyebrow to prompt for more information. “Not used to strangers, but they don’t really strike me as spies. And they’ve invited us to dinner in the house,” Barnes finished while balancing the blankets over the rungs of the ladder. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a hot meal that didn’t come out of a tin.”

“I forgot that existed,” Steve laughed. Dinner in the house would mean keeping up appearances a little longer than he was comfortable with, but it was a risk he was willing to take. As if in agreement, his stomach rumbled loudly, prompting Barnes to smirk in his direction while moving towards the back of the barn.

“There’s no running water, but they _politely_ suggested that we clean up beforehand.” He returned with a bucket over his arm while motioning Steve back the way he’d come. “Know how to light a stove?” he asked. Steve nodded. “There’s wood we can use in the back. I’ll get some water, so you don’t have to limp around like a swamp monster. I’d hate to scare away our dinner.”

“Thanks,” Steve laughed. It was hard not to. Barnes didn’t strike him as the sort to need massive amounts of human interaction, but maybe the small brush with civilisation had done him good. He was undoubtedly more chatty than usual, and Steve had spied more smiles in the last hour than he had in the time he’d known him. It was that, or maybe Barnes had finally decided to forgive him and was ready to get over the bridge covering Steve’s idiocy.

They worked together; Steve lighting the fire and manning the large pot they’d been given while Barnes brought in buckets of cold water and snow. They had what Steve suspected to be an old horse trough to pour the hot water into. It wasn’t luxury, but it was definitely going to do the trick.

Once done, Steve busied himself with ferrying the blankets up to the loft while giving Barnes space to freshen up. It was a quick splash, focused more on getting the muck off their faces and hands in an attempt to make themselves at least semi-presentable. Steve followed suit once Barnes was done before limping towards the farmhouse.

Dinner was an interesting affair. Steve had never felt so rude in his life. He did his best to not break the place while still maintaining his heavy limp, and he’d allowed himself to throw table manners to the side and just dove into his food. It helped him tune out everything that went on around him, solidifying the illusion of him being a little vacant in the brain.

Lamb – at least, Steve assumed it was lamb – stew and crusty bread had never been so good, so thankfully Steve found it pretty easy to focus on the food, and not on the way Barnes laughed and charmed their hosts into fits of giggles. Barnes talked for the both of them, his Russian accent flawless. Once again, Steve marvelled at his language skills. Russian, after all, wasn’t even his mother tongue, and yet he conversed flawlessly, only occasionally stumbling over what Steve assumed was a regional dialect.

Well-fed and warm, the elderly lady had shoved more things into Barnes' arms, and then gently pressed a basket into Steve’s hand. Steve did his best not to make eye contact while still bobbing his head slightly.

Barnes led them across the yard and back to the shed, pulling the heavy doors closed behind them and turning on the number of torches they’d been given for light. 

Steve eyed the basket, finding more bread and a few dried fruits and smoked meat. His mouth watered even after the large meal they’d been given. He and Barnes had been eating little but tinned spam and cans of beans for the better part of the last week, so it was only logical that he could still be excited about more food.

“She doesn’t think this will fit, but she wanted you to try,” Barnes said while casually tossing something at Steve. Steve plucked it out of the air easily and unfolded it. It was some sort of large sack looking smock, more dress than robe and it didn’t look at all flattering.

“Really?” Steve asked. He didn’t mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he also didn’t fancy wandering around in a burlap dress either.

“We’re closer to Asia than Europe, Steve,” Barnes said dryly, clearly feeling that Steve needed to be educated. “They don’t make people as large as you here. You can at least wash your shirt tonight and use that until it dries.”

Steve was doubtful, but the idea of a clean shirt was enough to have him willing to try.

Now that they had replacement clothes, they went through the process of heating water again. This time Steve went first, stripping down as much as he dared to in the cold. His pants would have to survive – it was far too cold to spend the night in nothing but the smock – but he washed himself and his shirt and took the time to get the build-up of mud and dirt out of his hair. Barnes did him the courtesy of not laughing too much when he appeared in what was clearly some sort of traditional robe that, shapeless as it was, still didn’t quite fit. The material hindered the movement of Steve’s shoulders, gaped at the front of his chest and sat at a really unflattering angle at the top of his thighs.

“If you want help with clean water, then shut up,” Steve snarked.

“Tetchy,” Barnes laughed, but then he dropped the subject and hauled the dirty trough outside to empty before starting again. Once there was enough warm water for Barnes, Steve made his way up the ladder to the loft and started arranging the stash of blankets in between the bales of hay.

Barnes joined him later, pulling his duffle bags of weaponry up into the loft and once again, Steve had to do his best not to stare. It was annoying how well the borrowed clothes fit Barnes, and even more annoying that he didn’t look totally ridiculous in them. He had the same sort of tunic on, but his was more elaborate with coloured embroidery around the collar and sleeves. It was clearly a ceremonial robe of sorts that fell to Barnes’ knees and had a fur belt fixed around the waist. He’d been luckier with his clothing options and had what looked like fur trousers on underneath.

It reminded Steve of images he’d seen in history books depicting Genghis Khan and his Mongol army. Warm and fuzzy and soft, and yet deadly and ready to kill.

His wet hair was also distracting, not that Steve understood why.

Steve managed to stop staring before Barnes pulled him up on it, and once Barnes had his bags stashed close to his bed, he pulled out the map and unfolded it across the floor next to Steve. It felt strange to be out of the truck and even stranger still to be this close. They tended to scatter once they had their freedom, and maybe it was Steve’s tired brain talking, but he felt like Barnes was a little closer than strictly necessary. Steve wasn’t complaining – not by a long shot – but the proximity made his clean skin prickle pleasantly.

“I figure we hit the swamp about here,” Barnes said. He pointed to a point on the map that was well outside of the general boundary of the Vasyugan marshes, but it did make sense. Neither of them had expected to hit the bog so soon.

Barnes’ damp hair shifted, a lock falling over his eyes, and he quickly pushed it back with a grunt of irritation. “And now we’re here,” he said, pointing to an X that had freshly been drawn in.

“Fuck,” Steve muttered.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t made good progress. They’d covered a lot of ground, all difficulties considered, but they’d clearly turned themselves around out there, and instead of striking more south, had come out more due east.

If they hadn’t been trying to stay hidden, then they could have congratulated themselves on emerging at an optimal location.

“If we go further south from here,” Barnes clarified, “like intended, we won’t be able to get across the Altai Reserve. Not in this weather. The only way around would be to cross into Mongolia and then loop back up, but,” he was shaking his head, and while Steve wasn’t sure on the political situation, Barnes clearly thought it was a bad idea. “Mongolia isn’t part of the Soviet Union, but road borders aren’t going to be an option.”

Neither of them had any passports or papers to get them legally across the border. Maybe if Barnes had been on his own, then he might have stood a chance to charm his way across, but with Steve in tow, trying wasn’t even an option. Their play at the dim-witted cousin wasn’t going to hold up at border control. And that wasn’t even considering the greater evil. If the Soviet police were after them, then they surely would have tipped off all border patrols with the necessary information.

“So, where does that leave us?” Steve asked.

Barnes sighed and flicked at his wet hair with his hands before securing it at the crown of his head with the band he kept around his wrist. It made him look more like a native than before. Or a ninja, Steve mused.

“Honestly,” he said. “We either go back the way we came,” he looked at Steve with such intensity that Steve knew that wasn’t really an option. Barnes was just saying it to make it seem like their hands weren’t so horribly tied.

“Or,” Steve promoted even though he had a feeling he already knew.

“Or,” Barnes concluded, “We go exactly the way we tried to avoid.” He pointed to a road up north that looked familiar to Steve. It was precisely the way that they’d ruled out to be too dangerous given their tail.

“The locals say we can ford the river and get to Tomsk easily enough, but after that, we’re on the highway to at least Novovostochnyy. We can strike inland after that and take as many backroads as possible, which will at least let us avoid larger towns and Krasnoyarsk, but…” Barnes trailed off with a helpless look on his face. Steve did his best to seem like he understood the overly complicated names and assumed that they were the larger dots on the map between their little X and where they wanted to be.

“But we’re still going to be approaching Abakan from the north, as would be expected,” Steve filled in.

Barnes nodded beside him. “And given the time it took us to get across Vasyugan, then we’re likely driving straight into a fortified trap.”

Well, fuck.

Steve didn’t know what to say. There was no debating ideas and strategies; there just was no other option. Worse still, out of all the places that Steve had flagged for possible locations for Chernobog’s staff, the next held the most merit. They couldn’t skip it, and to go around and possibly loop back would add weeks, if not months, onto their journey. They’d been holding up well, and apart from Barnes’ testy attitude, they’d managed not to kill each other yet, but even Steve didn’t think that he could push Barnes that far. He was sure they both wanted to set their stolen jeep on fire and call it a day as it was. Adding an unforeseen amount of time stuck in that vehicle would probably drive them both insane.

The worst thing was that it made the entire struggle through the swamp pointless and unnecessary. Everything that they’d done to try and stay under the radar had been for nothing, and now they’d only managed to fuck themselves over on the flipside.

Feeling Barnes’ unease at all the words left unsaid, Steve bit the bullet and nodded his head slightly.

“I guess we don’t have much choice then,” Steve concluded.

Besides him, Barnes sighed and rolled his head back to look at the ceiling dramatically. “I’d really hoped you weren’t going to say that.”

*****

**Part XIV Preview**

“What the hell was that, Steve?” Barnes asked. For all Barnes’ generally cocky attitude and deadly abilities, he sounded small and terrified at that moment. Like he'd been forced to face the very desecration of his own reality and being.

As far as questions went, it was a good one. Loaded and one that Steve couldn’t possibly answer, but at least he had something else.

“I know where we need to go,” Steve gushed. Saying that the shaman had told him the answers to his questions sounded daft even in Steve’s mind, so he kept that part to himself. Besides, Barnes wasn’t in any condition to hear talk of the creature that’d haunted him in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re bored and haven’t seen it, watch Long Way Round with Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman. It’s old now (2004) but I recently re-watched it and took a lot more out of it this time around. 
> 
> One of the biggest things was all the issues they had in Russia. So all these chapters of ‘hard times’ are totally based on real shit, and they obviously weren’t dumb enough to try and cut through this swamp. 
> 
> Another thing to note, they started planning the trip in 2003 and went in 2004 and EVEN THEN none of eastern Russia (as well as Mongolia etc) had been mapped out and added to GPS. Obviously, GPS wasn’t a thing back in the 80’s, but if in the 00’s they STILL hadn’t recorded that part of the world, you can imagine how much harder Steve and Bucky’s trip must be!! Plus, I really liked how realistically the series showed the corruption and border issues and checkpoint bribes which are all things that would have been insanely harder for Barnes and Steve. 
> 
> So yeah. Entertaining ‘Travel Show’ rec and damn, I am so (first world problems privileged) pissed of that this whole virus thing stopped The Grand Tour from doing their planned Northern Russia trip this May. 
> 
> Anyway, enough with the history lessons. Hope you haven’t forgotten about this and are still here with me! Let me know what you thought and, of course, gush about how damn fine Bucky would look all in tribal furs!


	15. Part XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just know, if I had to give this chapter a title, it would be [Bone Dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5lHdgEv6CIQ). But more on that AFTER the chapter. 
> 
> Also. I don’t know who Nephele is, but just know that you really made my day. My week even. There were even some really touched, grateful tears. Thank you!
> 
> \----
> 
> Using this chapter to officially tick **B3 – Never Again** off my _Bucky Barnes Bingo Card_. Check the progress [here](http://minkawrites.com/bbb-card/), and keep your eyes peeled for a one-shot that will mark off one of the very ‘un-Minka’ squares soon!

**Part XIV**

“No.”

Steve blinked and looked over at Barnes. He frowned at what he saw.

He was used to Barnes being impassive. He had this ability to wear a neutral expression so naturally that it was almost disturbing. It was always so hard to determine what he was thinking, which, Steve guessed, was part of what made Barnes such an effective spy.

But now Barnes was defensive. There was a hard set to his mouth stemming from his clenched jaw, and a frown between his eyes that even his training didn’t seem able to smooth down. Even the colour had drained from his face. It gave Steve flashes to that photo of him taken at Lubyanka so long ago. That sullen, defeated shell of a man huddled in the dark.

Steve had to admit that the mouth of the cave didn’t look inviting, and it sure as hell didn’t strike him as the sort of place that rational people would want to visit.

There was, however, nothing rational about the journey they’d found themselves on, and for better or worse, Steve had to go into that cave. They’d risked hellfire to get here; had struggled against all odds and managed to sneak their way into yet another part of the Siberian wilderness. If they didn’t check the cave, then Steve knew it would consume him. The _what if_ , and the idea of having left a viable source untouched.

Kashkulakskaya Cave was, according to local legend, a thing filled with nightmares and best left untouched. It was surrounded by the sorts of stories that made Steve’s skin clammy at the idea of entering, all while simultaneously appealing to his academic curiosity.

In an attempt of kindness, Steve hadn’t told Barnes about the haunting mysteries surrounding the place. Yet here at the dark opening, Barnes looked like he’d seen a ghost. He’d stopped the moment the yawning mouth of the cave had poked through the snow-capped undergrowth and had instantly started up his mantra of “No.”

“I am not… I _can not_ go in to there.” It wasn’t the first time that Barnes had stuttered, but Steve still noticed it like a slap to the face. Barnes was usually so sure of himself when he spoke. It was like he rehearsed each word and sentence over in his head before he voiced them. Maybe that was true. Steve didn’t know what it was like to speak a second language, and he often forgot that English wasn’t Barnes’ native tongue.

Yet that led to the other thing. Barnes spoke English fluently. He used conjunctions and slang like any native speaker, even when he was angry and splattered in blood. He also never showed any signs of an accent. His English was a perfect blank slate; neither Americanised nor British or anything in between.

Steve had never heard him sound so _Romanian_ in the entire time he’d known him.

Those few words carried the weight of his native accent, and the confusion of the added preposition only heightened the abnormality.

“Barnes?”

“Don’t you _feel_ it?” Barnes hissed. He shifted his feet, subtly moving himself away from the opening of the cave. The other man almost slipped in the muddy riverbank behind them. It was yet another sign of how unstable he already was.

He looked; Steve almost struggled for the word. _Scared_. Barnes looked scared. Terrified, even. Steve had never seen that before. Not in the boxing ring, not when Steve had found him surrounded by the bodies of his friends, and not in any of the other places they’d visited. Barnes had always been stoic. Cool, calm and collected; ready to face anything and come out on top. A warrior prepared for whatever life wanted to throw at him.

“Barnes?” He asked again, trying to catch the spy’s attention. Barnes didn’t even flinch at the word; he just kept his eyes glued ahead, looking at the dark mouth of the cave. Steve glanced back towards it, momentarily terrified that he’d see the boogieman himself crawling out of the entrance.

“Bucky?” he tried. That got Barnes’ attention, and for the first time since they’d met, Barnes eyes snapped to his without rage and hatred over the use of the long-dead nickname.

It was a risk, and it was a gamble and Steve was probably playing with life and death right here and now, but he took it. Took that risk. He moved closer and slipped one hand along the curve of Barnes’ jaw and cheek. He turned Barnes’ head away from the cave and smiled softly as Barnes’ eyes seemed to blink back into focus on Steve’s face.

“It’s alright,” Steve did his best to be soothing.

He remembered when one of his men, Peter, had kicked a landmine back in the jungle. It had all happened so fast and so sudden, and when the panic had settled, and no gunfire had followed, Steve had waded through the slush to find Peter screaming in pain. God help him, but Steve had thought that it would have been kinder if Peter had died. Being blown to smithereens instead of having both legs shattered. A quick death instead of the feel of his limbs gone, and the stumps sinking into the thick mud.

Peter had been a blabbering, screaming mess, and no one could have ever faulted him for that.

Steve still remembered holding his face and telling him lies about how everything would be alright, and that they’d get him help, even as Peter had slowly bled out into the mud. It had only taken minutes to see Peter gone, but for Peter, Steve was sure, it would have felt like hours. Pain and despair and shock and the sheer fear of knowing what had happened.

Even now, Steve saw Peter’s face in his nightmares, only now his consciousness had seen him being the one to set the mine in the first place.

Forcing his mind back to the task at hand, he stroked his thumb over Barnes’ cheek, smoothing the scruff that had grown on his face. Barnes did a much better job of keeping his facial hair under control while travelling than Steve did. It was as endearing as it was perplexing.

“It’s going to be alright,” Steve said again, and this time Steve knew that he’d hold true to his words. He’d failed Peter, but he wouldn’t fail Barnes.

“Stay here. I’ll go in and have a-”

Barnes’ hand was like a vice around Steve’s arm, the grip tightening by the second. The spy shook his head and gripped even harder.

“No. Don’t go in there.” He shook his head against Steve’s hand but made no move to dislodge it.

Steve didn’t understand. Obviously, Barnes was freaked out about the cave, and rationally Steve was able to draw connections. He’d already worked out that Barnes wasn’t overly fond of the dark, and he didn’t like tight spaces, but that had never stopped him before. Time and time again, they’d both been put to the test, and Barnes always came out as the stronger survivor. He had his past and his demons, but he’d never, ever let them get the best of him. Even up in the heights of Manpupuner, he’d scoffed at his fear of heights and laughed in the face of his own shortcomings.

That just was Barnes. He had a blatant disregard for the things that he feared, and the troubles of his past that had shaped him. Barnes challenged those aspects of himself and forced himself to push through. He did that thing where he set his jaw and didn’t talk; where he gripped his rifle a little tighter and lifted his chin. Steve had seen it a lot, and he hadn’t been stupid enough not to notice how Barnes didn’t sleep well. But that was a part of war, and a part of espionage.

It was a part of them both.

This was something different. The fear in Barnes’ eyes was palpable. Just seeing it there was enough to have Steve’s hair standing on end and his throat dry. He knew fear; his wore a different face to the horrors that Barnes’ had seen, but Steve knew it all the same.

“There’s no other choice,” Steve tried to reason gently. Only then did he realise that he’d been holding Barnes’ face for entirely too long. He dropped his hand with a small sigh, surprised at how much effort it took. 

“We can leave,” Barnes shot back. Usually, there’d be a sting to the words, a subtle bite that was meant to insult. This time he just sounded mildly desperate and like a plea.

Steve shook his head. He wished that was an option, but he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that this was it. They’d find something here. Steve couldn’t walk away from that, not now and not after so long on the hunt.

“I have to go in there,” Steve reasoned. “We’ll never be sure if I don’t. But you don’t have to come with me,” Steve tried once more. “I’ll be back out before you even know it.”

Barnes merely shook his head and frowned, his fingers tightening around his rifle. The effort it took to get his body to move forward was visible, but, one after the other, Barnes’ feet shuffled him towards the entrance.

Of all the things they’d already seen and done, and all the ways Steve had pushed Barnes, walking into the darkness with Barnes at his side felt like the worst.

* * *

Mission Report: 22nd December 1981

2030 hours

Vienna International Centre

48°14′05″N 16°25′01″E

Vienna, Austria

File: 6108’46N

Subject: Captain Steven Grant Rogers

* * *

“So, you and Barnes went into this…” Sitwell looked at the notes in front of him, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he tried to formulate the name. “Cashkula- _la…_ Cashkulaceya cave?”

As far as pronunciation attempts went, Steve was willing to give Sitwell some credit. At least he’d tried. Hearing the American fumble over the words made Steve smile. He remembered when he'd struggled as well. He'd spent as long as possible not saying the name of the place in front of Barnes for fear of ridicule. That mockery came, of course, but after a few minutes of laughing, Barnes had rolled his eyes and set about breaking the name down for Steve. He beat the syllables out on his thigh slowly, getting Steve to mirror along, before gradually becoming faster. 

“Yes,” Steve said simply. “We went into _Kashkulakskaya_ cave.” He’d felt proud as he rolled the name effortlessly off his tongue. It still sounded nothing like how Barnes said it. The Russian word had dripped like honey from the spy’s lips, and the deep, gravelly tone of his voice made it sound sensual. Like a place of promise and not one born of nightmares.

“And,” Sitwell prompted with a small wave of his hand. It was dismissive and rude, and Steve unintentionally straightened his back and lifted his chin at what he perceived as a challenge.

Sitwell had been even colder since Steve had dodged his questions about Natasha, and even more so his unjustified accusations on Bucky’s allegiances. Knowing that it was his job to remain objective didn’t help the loathing that Steve had started to feel for the man during the debriefing. There was something in Sitwell’s eyes that spoke of a cunningness that betrayed his casual exterior, and more and more, Steve had the feeling that Sitwell shouldn’t be trusted. 

There were a lot of things that Steve didn’t want to discuss, but what happened in Kashkulakskaya cave sat high on that list. Unsettling and unexplainable, Steve didn’t have the slightest clue where to start recounting the time spent there, especially not in a way that would make any sense to an outsider.

“Can I get some more water, please.” He was stalling, but given the way Steve's heart had started racing just by saying the name, he knew he had to buy the time to think his explanation through logically.

How was he meant to explain how the place had felt, or, even more importantly, how he’d found the answers to his search in the hushed tones of a threatening, ghostly voice?

Sitwell pressed a button on his side of the desk and filtered the request through. Moments later, the door opened, and a woman brought a fresh pitcher of water to replace the one Steve had emptied.

“So, what did you find in Cashku-the cave,” Sitwell gave up on his attempts at the Russian name.

“Evil,” Steve said simply. He picked up the pitcher and refilled his glass, pausing to take three large gulps before repeating the process. His mouth was so dry, his throat scratchy. They’d been at this for hours now, and while Steve logically knew he didn’t want to stop – he'd never be able to start again if he stopped now – he could feel the effects of constant talking irritating the back of his throat. It worked in tandem with the bruises to make speaking an overall unpleasant experience.

As much as he didn’t want to talk about Kashkulakskaya cave, Steve knew that the sooner he explained their experience, the sooner he could move on and once again push the horrors into the back of his mind. They’d stay there, buried but never forgotten, and Steve knew for sure that his nightmares would never be the same again. Vietnam’s jungles would mingle with horrific darkness and weighted dread for years to come.

“There’s something in there,” Steve emphasised. “Something that hates being disturbed. Something not human.” Just speaking about the entity that lurked in that darkness had a shiver running down the length of Steve’s spine.

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” Sitwell brushed his words off. His hands swept to another file sitting on the edge of the desk. Pulling it close, Sitwell flicked it open and shuffled through some of the pages, laying them out in front of him. It made Steve feel like Sitwell had nothing to hide, which he knew for certain to be untrue.

Page after page spread out, and Steve eyed them with a disinterested flick of the eyes. He didn’t need to see all the reports about the cave to understand the point that Sitwell was trying to make.

“I understand that this certain place comes with a lot of stigma,” Sitwell continued. “Boogiemen and ghosts in the dark, and elaborate tales from overactive imaginations. There are some fantastic anecdotes of human sacrifice and a beast that roams the dark. And let’s not forget the ‘ _general sense of dread’_ that people feel around the area.”

Sitwell was downplaying the cultural significance of the sacred site by a mile, but Steve didn’t feel like correcting him. Such a flex of knowledge would only add to the time Steve was stuck in this room with the insufferable man. The American government didn’t care about the beliefs of the ancient Khakas, nor did it care for tales of Soviet scientists. Not unless they directly posed a threat to the arms race.

“However, caves are known to play havoc on the most stable of minds, and for every horror story mentioned, there is a scientific explanation. Noxious gases, for instance. Studies have also proven that infrasound waves at a frequency of about 6 Hz can cause a feeling of horror and trigger hallucinations.

“So, while I respect your take on this evil entity, I’m not entirely sure I believe your story, Captain Rogers.”

Again, Steve found himself biting his tongue. What he’d seen down there? What Barnes had felt? That wasn’t the case of getting high on cave gas, nor was it some silent vibration of the earth. After all, for the most part, Steve had been fine. It had been Barnes who was affected, and who had started rattling off descriptions of the frightening things he saw in the dark.

Months earlier, when Steve had been doing his research into logical places for this mythical fight to have taken place, he'd come across Kashkulakskaya cave and had shivered at what he'd read. There was a lot more to it than Sitwell’s sterile explanation. More darkness, more death. People going crazy with their hair turning white, chanting haunting things until the moment they died.

Of all the places on Steve’s list, Kashkulakskaya cave was the one he least wanted to experience, and yet the one that had provided the most plausible resting place for a buried god.

He’d played Barnes dirty, though, by keeping him out of the loop. Steve didn’t like to think that it had been an intentional deception, and he considered it more of an act of kindness. It was hard enough entering a place he already feared, let alone convincing Barnes to follow him into the darkness after filling his head with all the nonsense that Steve had read. 

“With all due respect,” Steve said in a manner laced with the exact opposite intonation. He rested his forearms on the desk as he shifted closer. The table creaked under his weight. “We’re here discussing a scavenger hunt for a magical sceptre that belonged to a Slavic deity. A mission that the _American government_ poured funds into, and one that the Soviets thought important enough to order a pack of bloodhound murderers after us.

“So, when I say that there’s evil in that cave, and when I say that it should _never_ be disturbed, I fucking mean it.” Steve had never been one for cursing – that was by far Barnes’ talent – but sometimes the occasion really called for it.

Just thinking about the two days he and Barnes had spent in the hellish landscape of the Altai Mountain cave had his blood running cold. Steve would never forget the sounds or the feeling of eyes watching every move they made.

That cave had done things to Barnes too. Things that Steve couldn’t even begin to understand. He’d known that Barnes was spooked going in, and Steve could understand why on a surface level. It was understandable that Barnes wouldn’t like anywhere dark and cold and under the earth and Steve could even tie Barnes’ fear of heights into the mix as well.

But in that cave, Barnes was nothing like himself.

He was jumpy and frightened, and Barnes had left off rounds of bullets into the nothingness around them more than once. A dark figure was following them, Barnes had said. With the horns of a beast and the fur of a bear. A shaman in the dark who spoke to him of blood and sacrifice; the ends of life and death and the world itself.

Honestly, if Steve hadn’t known better, he would have thought that Barnes was out of his mind, sense long gone and replaced with the ravings of a madman. 

In the early hours of dawn, after the single night, they’d risked in their exploration, Barnes had pulled his knees to his chest and started muttering, ‘remember the stones’, to himself.

That was when Steve had pulled the plug. Barnes had no way of knowing how significant and how horrifying those words were to Steve.

He’d grabbed what he could reach of their supplies and then grabbed Barnes, pulling him to his feet. Steve didn’t bother with the unpacked food or anything else he couldn’t immediately reach. His mind was one track; Barnes, light and _leave_.

Remember the stones.

Steve had come across those words multiple times during his research. From the woman with the stress-whitened hair who wasted away in a matter of months, to the sixth-grade child who’d hung himself in his attic. Both had returned from the cave, and both had said those three words over and over again. Left them as a cryptic death mantra.

Steve wasn’t taking any chances. Not with Barnes.

Tripping and stumbling their way through the darkness, Steve had steadied Barnes as much as he could. The spy had gone erratic, his head whipping from side to side and demanding to be left alone. It wasn’t Steve that he spoke to though. His voice projected into the dark and fuck Steve sideways, but he was sure that he'd heard a rattling reply. The sound of a stick striking the ground and the jangle of beads and bones on a thread.

When Barnes had blatantly told Steve that _he_ was following them – didn’t want them to leave – Steve refused to look back. He’d pushed Barnes in front of him and made him walk faster.

Even with what happened to them afterwards, Steve would remember those hours in the dark as the scariest time of his life. No bullet-fire in the jungle or sadistic assassins could ever compare.

“You’ve mentioned this, and I quote, ‘ _KGB Death Squad_ ’ several times,” Sitwell cut into Steve’s frightening memories. Steve felt the agent’s eyes sweep him up and down. “I’m assuming they’re the cause of your current state.”

“You already know that,” Steve countered. There was a deep note of condescension in Sitwell’s tone that Steve didn’t appreciate.

“What I don’t know is when, or how, they found you,” Sitwell continued. “Given your reluctance to talk about what happened in… the cave,” he skipped over the name with a wrinkle of his nose, his index finger moving to push his glasses further up his nose, “then perhaps you’d like to enlighten me on the KGB’s involvement in all this.”

Considering the nature of what he and Barnes had experienced in the Altai mountains, Steve was more than willing to move on. Even if it did mean returning to memories even more painful.

“Well.” Steve paused to take another sip water. His eyes flicked to the tape recorder to check the progress.

“They happened right after Kashkulakskaya.”

* * *

The pillars.

The voice was a ghostly whisper against the back of Steve’s neck. His hair stood on end even as he tried to rationalise the sound away. There was no one there to speak to him.

Nothing but the sinister shadow that Barnes had been snarling at and threatening for the last two hours. Barnes was switching between English, Russian and Romanian frantically, threatening and pleading and swearing retribution against the thing he saw was following them. Unsettling as it was, at least he hadn’t continued the mantra about the stones, at least not in English.

Steve kept him moving, pushing them both past their physical limits in an attempt to reach the mouth of the cave before the unthinkable happened and Barnes went totally insane.

For all the time that they’d known each other, never before had Steve been allowed to touch Barnes so much. His hands lived on the other man’s hips, guiding and moving him forward even as Barnes tried to stop and turn, his hands reaching for his magnitude of weapons. Steve took his arm; his elbow; his hand. In the frantic terror of the moment, not even Steve could find time to marvel at how close Barnes allowed him to be.

As the minutes ticked into hours, Steve knew that he’d never been so terrified in his life.

Steve hadn’t seen anything himself. He’d read all the stories and knew all of the myths that surrounded the place. People had reported seeing a man with a bear’s body and a bloody skull for a head, or a shaman in white wearing a horned fox head over his face. Ghastly things born of nightmares. They spoke of giant ravens ravaging the bones of the sacrificed, still bloody after all these centuries.

During the night, Barnes had mentioned the shaman watching them from the darkness of the shadows. He’d described the exact scene that Steve had read about. White robes and a fox face and horns. Blood. Barnes had also talked of blood and the bones that rattled around the witchdoctor’s neck as he circled them. That had been terrifying enough, and Steve had been ready to move. A few minutes later, when Barnes had started talking about remembering the stones, Steve had pushed them into action.

As the bright light of day started to drown out their flickering torches, Steve had heard that voice once again.

_The pillars._ It was right at the base of his skull and the hairs on his neck shot up to full attention. It was like fingers ghosting over his neck and down his spine. Heat. He could feel heat and yet, at the same time, an overwhelming cold that chilled him to the bone.

A hiss and a rattle and _Destiny is at Elyu-Ene_ …

Steve had never been so thankful for the sting of bright light assaulting his eyes.

They stumbled out into the narrow causeway between the cave entrance and the river, and Barnes seemed to deflate. Fresh air and light and the sound of the water bubbling had him audibly sighing out loud even as he shuffled further away. He only stopped when he found a rock – separate from the rabble of the cave – that he could ease himself down on.

“What the hell was that, Steve?” Barnes asked. For all Barnes’ generally cocky attitude and deadly abilities, he sounded small and terrified at that moment. Like he'd been forced to face the very desecration of his own reality and being.

As far as questions went, it was a good one. Loaded and one that Steve couldn’t possibly answer, but at least he had something else.

“I know where we need to go,” Steve gushed. Saying that the shaman had told him the answers to his questions sounded daft even in Steve’s mind, so he kept that part to himself. Besides, Barnes wasn’t in any condition to hear talk of the creature that’d haunted him in the darkness.

“Great.” Barnes couldn’t have sounded less impressed even if he’d tried. He was heaving as he sat there, his chest lifting and falling quickly as if he were trying to push something from this throat. In his lap, his hands shook.

“Can you stand?” Steve asked. Barnes looked wrecked; pale and tired with dark circles under his eyes. Irrational paranoia reared its ugly head, reminding Steve of the ghost stories that plagued the short lives of others who had entered the cave. Premature aging and hair turning white during the night and bodies succumbing to a wasting disease.

The lack of response was all the answer Steve needed. It said more than any show of bravado ever could.

Shrugging the pack off his shoulder, Steve rummaged until he found what he was looking for.

“Here,” Steve said, pushing the dried meat into Barnes’ hands. “Eat.”

“Steve.”

“Eat, and then water,” Steve finished. Neither of them wanted to stay near the cave, but the light of day helped to push the horrors back. They could spare the time to get Barnes back on his feet. “And then we get the fuck away from here.”

That seemed to spur Barnes on, and he gnawed at the jerky with fervour. During their time in the cave, Barnes had refused all food and had only sipped at water after Steve’s insistent bullying. He’d been too busy peering into the darkness and gripped his rifle to do much else.

While Barnes ate, Steve took stock of the supplies he’d managed to bring with them. They'd dwindled their stocks in the cave, and a glance into the backpack showed that Steve had left more behind than he would have liked. He’d also left their blankets on the cave floor. It was inconvenient but given a hundred chances for a do-over and Steve would have acted exactly the same. Blankets could be replaced, and food found, but any longer in that place and Steve was sure that Barnes would have been lost to him.

They spent the better part of an hour getting themselves back in order. It was clear they were both eager to get on the way, but Steve had dug in stubbornly and made Barnes eat a little more. He was still startlingly pale, and Steve had no intention of letting the spy brush everything off and go tramping out through the freezing cold while hungry and dehydrated.

When Steve finally relented and agreed to move on, they packed themselves up and headed back down the path towards their jeep. After their ordeal in the swamp, they’d both decided that it was in their best interests to leave it just off the end of the road and not risk it through the open fields and tight forests. The last thing either of them wanted was to lose time digging the bloody thing out of a bog again. As rational of a plan as it had been, it did leave them with a solid hour hike back. After the eery confines of the cave, the dying, snow-covered scrub of the Siberian wilderness was a welcome relief.

What Steve hadn’t expected was to come face to face with a squadron of armed men, boasting guns and Kevlar and visored helmets. 

The soldier in Steve was ever-present; an entity simmering just below the surface of every waking thought. It was always ready to react; always prepared to jump into motion. 

Defend; fight; survive; it came in that order.

Two things stopped that side of Steve leaping into action. The first was the shock. After so long alone and the strange night in the depths of the Siberian cave, Steve wasn’t on top of his game. The last thing he’d ever expected was to walk into an armed guard in the middle of the woods. It had his mind reeling, and his reaction time stalled.

Next was a collection of split-second instances that happened in such rapid-fire succession that Steve was left stunned and rooted to the spot.

“Hey there, James,” the man in front said, and if Steve had had the chance, he would have been shocked by the man’s American accent. He might have even noticed something else.

Instead, chaos erupted.

Barnes was a whirl of black at his side, hair wild and gloved hands reaching for weapons. Steve stumbled, jolted by something – Barnes’ elbow, he assumed – and by the time he righted himself and spared a moment to reach for his own rifle, it was clearly too late.

Barnes had twin Phantoms pointed at the leader’s head. The squadron had their guns pointed back at Barnes just as fast.

But it was the laugh of the leader that made Steve stop and stiffen.

The familiarity of the tone clicked into place, and Steve knew who it was before the man even pulled back the visor of his helmet.

“I missed you too, Buck,” Rumlow said.

*****

**Part XV Preview**

“Let’s just pause there for a moment.” 

Steve had known it was coming. He could see the twitch of irritated disbelieve in Sitwell’s eyes. It made them squint behind his glasses and drew his lip up at the corner. A clear tell that he was growing annoyed and didn’t fully believe Steve’s account. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Evil smirk*
> 
> Ok, before you all lose yo shit over the cliff-hanger and the fantablous reappearance of a character you all probably thought I only tagged due to that one ‘Gypsy chicks are hot’ statement way back in…. chapter 3?? Let me dazzle you with something else. 
> 
> The **fucking** cave is **fucking** real, and everything that Steve talked about and remembered in this HAS been documented about this place!! I didn’t make ANY of that up! 
> 
> [This is the most user friendly, instant info link if you want to check some stuff out yourself. ](http://tripfreakz.com/offthebeatenpath/the-evil-cave-of-the-white-shaman) Other than that, you’ll get some random google scatterings in English and more if you deep dive into Russian. But, OMG, how fucking creepily cool is that!?!?!?!?!
> 
> This chapter is also a real turning point. It’s the first time that this fic actually touches on magical elements, despite being (as Steve said) a scavenger hunt for a magical staff. Up until now, it’s been a blend of believable spy games blended with what is basically just a road trip. 
> 
> It left me with the challenge of finding a way to bring in this ghostly Sharman character in a way that was accessible to the reader. Barnes seeing it all, and saying words that Steve had read about was the perfect ploy to balance unbelievable with the idea of plausible. And then having Sitwell in the middle meant that I could brush over a lot of the happenings which, in turn, leaves the time in the cave intentionally vague while also allowing Sitwell (and you, as the reader) to question IF it was real, or if it was just cave frequencies fucking with them. 
> 
> And then there’s Rumlow to put a nice little bow on the whole thing. 😊 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think.


	16. Part XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just can’t work out posting right now. Like. Being in a completely opposite timezone to what I was used to has really fucked me. It’s annoying, and I don’t like it. I think this is closer to usual. I don't know. 
> 
> Anyway… here’s Wonderwall. 
> 
> Like, obviously not. But you know what I mean. 😉

# Part XV

Steve had never considered himself to be slow. He wasn’t as quick-witted as Sam, and he wasn’t as razor-sharp perceptive as Barnes, but it wasn’t easy to pull the wool over his eyes, and he didn’t often miss things.

Still, that tiny moment of hesitation was all it took. That split second where he looked from Rumlow to Barnes and back to Rumlow.

Steve didn’t know Rumlow well, and what little time Steve had spent with him back in London had left a bad taste in this mouth. But he was an American agent, and he had been assigned to the expedition by SHIELD themselves. Barnes? He was still a mystery, even after the months of being on the road together. What Steve did know about him was that he was jumpy and trigger happy and didn’t take well to strangers.

That was why, for the briefest of moments, Steve raised his hand towards Barnes’ gun and opened his mouth to try and placate the nervous spy.

It was the wrong thing to do, and Steve realised it a moment too late. He’d been so focused on Barnes and Rumlow and the sound of Rumlow’s voice saying Barnes’ nickname, that Steve had failed to see one of the men circling behind him. The blow came fast and unrelenting, the butt of a gun striking him in the back of the neck.

Steve felt himself crumple like a ragdoll. He hit the forest floor hard, his left knee taking the brunt of his weight as pain exploded behind his eyes. Steve coughed and blinked through the automatic want to tear up even as a hand roughly closed around his shoulder. Stunned and reeling, Steve’s focus blurred as he was pulled up into a kneeling position.

“Put the gun down, Buck,” Rumlow ordered, just as Steve felt the press of a gun to the back of his skull.

“Can’t believe you’re still alive, Rogers,” another voice said, also known. Rollins, Steve thought his name was. He was one of the jarheads that had flocked around Rumlow back in London. 

Self-preservation kept him from looking up. It wasn’t because of the gun, or the threat that it offered, but because Steve didn’t want to see Barnes. Didn’t want to see his eyes and the indescribable emotions that often flashed through them.

Steve hated himself more at that moment than he had in years. He _wanted_ to see worry, wanted to see concern and compassion in those eyes, but deep down, he knew that wasn’t possible. That wasn’t even the thing that hurt the most. It was _knowing_ how Barnes would be right now. Confused and lost, but resolute. Barnes had made it clear that he didn’t want to die for this foolish quest, just as he’d been vocal that he wouldn’t be captured again.

If Steve looked up, he worried that he would take that choice away from Barnes. That he’d guilt him into something that would only bring Barnes further pain. 

“I know you’re a cold bitch, Barnes, but really?” Rumlow smirked. Steve felt his skin prickle at the way Rumlow spoke. There was something entirely too familiar in his tone. As if he knew Barnes personally. Intimately. “You gonna let us kill him?”

Steve watched out of the corner of his eye as Barnes’ jaw twitched. The spy still had his guns raised, and his stance spoke of someone poised and ready for war. Steve blinked again, feeling the haze finally starting to lift from his brain, even if a dull throbbing had settled into the back of his spine.

It didn’t matter how good of a shot Barnes was; he was outgunned and outnumbered, and their position was surrounded. Steve may not have understood what was going on with Rumlow and Rollins and the rest of the soldiers here, but he knew that Barnes was spooked and that Rumlow’s goons had struck at them first.

Hell, the way that Rumlow looked at Barnes was enough for Steve.

“Barnes,” Steve coaxed. The hand gripping the back of his shoulder tightened, but Barnes did look over. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments; Barnes looked haunted. Pale and drawn with his lips in a tight line and his eyes narrowed. It was like he’d seen a ghost, and Steve could tell that he looked far worse than he had in the cave.

It made the decision a lot easier.

“Run!” Steve instructed. He accentuated the word with a backwards swing of his elbow. It connected with the knee of the man behind him, and Steve swiftly grabbed the hand from his shoulder and yanked while rolling his upper body forward. Caught off guard, the man flipped over Steve’s shoulder as all hell broke loose around them.

Bucky did run, but it was with a spray of bullets that sent Rumlow’s troops scattering. It gave Steve the time needed to get to his feet. His head spun dangerously, but he gritted his teeth and reminded himself that he’d had worse.

The man at his feet started to squirm; Steve put an end to that with a swift kick to the face. The groan of pain came as sweet karmic justice to Steve’s ears, and Steve made quick work of ridding the man of his gun.

Rumlow’s goons were shooting back at Barnes as Rumlow swore and shouted orders, getting his men to regroup. Bullets ripped through the trees, and Steve bit into his bottom lip to keep himself grounded and in the present. It wasn’t Vietnam. It wasn’t the jungle. He gripped the gun tightly and set himself to the task at hand. Hesitation would mean death.

He got the first man in the leg. It wasn’t a clean blow, but Steve’s hand-eye coordination was wonky from the blow to the base of the neck. The wound still fell the man, and Steve’s second shot hit him in the chest. The soldier let out a gruff moan, but the lack of blood suggested that he had body armour under his winter clothes.

“Shit,” Steve swore to himself. They’d all likely be decked out in Kevlar.

Steve scrambled for cover as bullets ripped the air apart around him, but the mud made it next to impossible to move fast. Barnes was lost to him, but Steve could hear him on the fringes of Steve’s own fight; Barnes had switched to his Ak-47, and the rapid-fire of the rifle had a strange effect on Steve. On the one hand, it threatened to push his mind right back into the horrors of ‘Nam, yet on the other, Steve almost found it comforting.

It meant that Barnes was alive.

That thought alone kept Steve in the present. The mud was just mud; Siberian mud, not Vietnamese mud, and it was brown and slushy from the dusting of snow, not red and thick and made from the blood of his comrades.

Steve’s boots scraped a slippery line over a rock, his body twisting to shoot back the way he’d come.

For all the time that he and Barnes had spent together, they weren’t a team. Steve could remember being excited weeks ago – months ago – when they were in Natasha’s shipping crate and looking at the map. They’d been working together then, and Steve had held the hope of building on that. The night in the gulag camp had made Steve smile just as much as it had broken his heart. Barnes had said that they had personal crosses to bear, and that was true. What was also true was that, in that very moment, they were the closest they’d ever been. There had been understanding there, and a sense of camaraderie that could be the foundations for a stronger relationship.

That, of course, had all come crashing down when the helicopter had become apparent. Worse still, Steve knew that this, right now, was all happening because of him.

He hadn’t known that Rumlow was dirty, but he should have suspected it. He shouldn’t have trusted anyone, and he should never have left that paperwork in his hotel room. Steve should have been smarter, should have been more prepared for the world of espionage and spies, and double-crossing and unseen danger that he had walked into.

None of that, however, changed the fact that he and Barnes weren’t a team. They’d spent so long bickering and struggling to find common ground between themselves, that there wasn’t anything else between them. Nothing but a few shared scars, some nasty words and some rare moments of laughter.

Steve didn’t know the way Barnes operated. In theory, he did. Barnes kept himself alive and would stop at nothing to defeat an enemy. But that wasn’t teamwork. That wasn’t knowing how the other person would react, or being able to count on assistance. It wasn’t working together to overcome obstacles and threats.

Hell, the best thing they had right now was the idea of their truck. Wilderness survival dictated that they should meet back there, but – and Steve was proud of himself for knowing this – general survival saw that as a death threat. Rumlow would have found it. He probably even had a guard or two stationed there, so going to the truck, really, wasn’t an option.

That left Steve and Bucky with no extraction point. No regroup zone or rendezvous location.

They were flying blind.

The worst thing about it all was that Steve couldn’t focus. Not knowing where Barnes was gnarled at his mind. It ate at his soul. In Vietnam, Steve had always known where his soldiers were; they’d been trained, drilled and moulded into a single unit. They moved as one, breathed as one, and reacted as one. 

It was stupid, and it was inexplicable, and Steve actively hated himself for it, but he spent more time listening and waiting for the bark of Barnes’ gun than he did focusing on his own surroundings.

As long as Steve heard that rapid-fire 39mm, then he could breathe.

As chaotic as the fight was, it was over before it really got started. There were just too many of the unknown combatants, and, unlike Steve and Barnes, Rumlow’s men worked together.

All too soon, Steve heard the dull click of his gun chamber being empty. He snarled and spun it in his grip, holding it by the muzzle like a baton as he took cover behind a tree. The bark chipped off and flew into the air around him as someone opened fire on his position.

Steve wasn’t sure if it was much of a consolation, and it wasn’t really the time to try and dissect their intentions, but Steve already had a sneaking feeling that the soldiers weren’t out to kill them. Even the wild sprays of bullets came in low. Leg shots; the sort that would maim and incapacitate, but not kill.

Rumlow wanted to take them alive.

It further solidified how naive Steve had been. He’d kept his plans so tight-lipped, but he should have been anticipating a mole in the original task force. Hindsight was a bitch, and now Steve had to face the reality of all his choices. He’d known that he was playing into someone’s game, that someone out there had known about Barnes being alive. A person who had thought that Steve would be an excellent way to flush the Winter Soldier out. But was it Rumlow? The way he and Barnes had looked at each other suggested history, and Rumlow had greeted Barnes with his childhood nickname; had it been Rumlow to leave those files and images on Steve’s desk? 

With no other option but to move, Steve dashed from his cover to another tree. He had to hope that he could get behind the line of fire and try to take another of the soldiers by surprise. At least then he could get his hands on another weapon and bring some sort of cover to Barnes. The spy had to be running low on bullets; Steve could hear that with the way that Barnes’ finger worked the trigger. The bark of his gun came less often; more pointed and aimed to kill like he’d resolved to try and use his assault rifle as a sniper.

Pressed and running out of time, Steve peered around the tree trunk and dashed again. He could see Barnes out of the corner of his eye, and maybe that was Steve’s downfall. Barnes was all hellfire and dark eyes, moving like a big, black cat, and for the shortest of moments, their eyes locked.

Right as Barnes’ rifle clicked on empty.

Steve knew what a gun battle was like. Knew the chances of success and the fatal possibilities. A single bullet could end it all.

What he hadn’t been prepared for was the taser.

When he felt the thud against his chest, Steve thought for sure that he’d been hit; shot clean through and that this would be the end. Clearly, it was just taking his mind a moment to catch up to the burning pain of a bullet ripping through his body. He knew what it felt like to be shot. He had the scars to prove it.

Yet, something about this felt different. It started with a slight buzzing in his chest that made Steve’s heart race and his brows twitch. Then it hit. A full electric shock ripped through his body, and the world became clear just as it became foggy. The pain was startling, but Steve finally managed to see the wires connecting him to the strange gun one of the soldiers carried.

Instinct had Steve moving to pull the wires free from his clothes, but his hand and arm didn’t seem to respond the way he wanted them to. It was still by his side, twitching like a dying fish even as Steve narrowed his eyes and tried again. This time he got a good flap of movement; got some air between his arm and his side.

The soldier responded by pressing the trigger again and holding it down longer.

Steve went down like a tonne of bricks. Ungraceful, paralysed and with his mind reeling over why the world was turning upside down.

The gun was kicked from his hand, and there wasn’t a single thing that Steve could do about it. 

After that, it was all over easily. Or maybe it wasn’t, and Steve was losing track of time as energy drained from his body.

Steve felt helpless as they brought Barnes down. He didn’t go without a fight, and even Rumlow took a lip-splitting blow to the face as his men dragged Barnes to the ground. A knife was involved; someone was bleeding and screaming from the sidelines. 

Rumlow let out a string of curse words that put Barnes’ usual repertoire to shame as he spat a mouthful of blood to the ground. It painted the leaves at Barnes’ knees red, and Steve wasn’t sure if it was the colour or the way that Rumlow moved closer to the spy that had him shivering through the shocks still in his body.

He felt disembodied. Logically, Steve knew he wasn’t lying on the floor, twitching like an eel. That wasn’t how being shocked worked. But it still felt like it. He could feel each of his limbs tingling and vibrating on a cellular level even as his body became too heavy to move. He may have also been drooling a little, but his face was too numb to tell.

The scene before him played out like a hazy dream. Close enough that Steve should be able to touch it, and yet too far away for his body to reach. They had Barnes on his knees, and Steve’s languid eyes could see that it took two of them, with a third grabbing Barnes by his hair to keep him still. Steve could hear Barnes snarling like an animal. A zap from a stun gun to the neck saw an end to the noise and made Barnes horrifyingly more compliant.

Rollins put a strange, tight bag over each one of Barnes’ hands. Steve didn’t understand that. They looked like burlap sacks. Steve blinked once to try and make the strange sight disappear, only it didn’t. The bags were there, and Rollins wrapped a set of metal cuffs over the top and closed them tight. A second pair followed which seemed a little overkill to Steve. Then again, he knew Barnes, and slipping handcuffs probably came naturally to the renegade.

“No slippin’ these ones, Barnes,” Rollins taunted. Steve tried to get his mouth to close, but his brain was too busy working on getting his eyes to blink. One thing at a time.

With Barnes secured and reeling from the electric shock, Steve watched as Rumlow moved in. It was disgusting how much he moved like Barnes. The way he walked; a strut filled with confidence and the appeal of a predator. While Barnes was feline in his motions, Rumlow struck Steve as reptilian. He slithered as he stalked closer. It gave Steve the creeps.

Rumlow grabbed Barnes by the chin and pulled his head up. Steve could see the hatred in Barnes’ eyes, but it was nothing compared to the way Steve felt his own skin bristle. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like the way Rumlow stood over Barnes or the way Rumlow seemed so versed in manhandling him. Steve also didn’t like the stun gun in Rumlow’s hands, nor the way that he seemed so confident using the nickname that Steve still couldn’t say. It was too personal. Too close and even shock-jumbled as Steve was, his mind went into overdrive trying to guess the history between them.

“It’s good to have you back, Bucky,” Rumlow chirped. “We really missed you.”

Barnes replied with the fire that Steve expected; he spat straight into Rumlow’s face and then let out a string of Russian that sounded offensive even to Steve’s uneducated ears. 

“Got your fight back, huh?” Rumlow chuckled. He didn’t make any move to wipe the spit from his face, nor did he let go of Barnes’ chin. “Good. I like you better when you struggle.”

Steve did _not_ like that. Not at all. He could close his mouth. He could blink. His body felt weak and discombobulated, but there was life there. Steve could feel his fingers, and he concentrated on curling them. The movement spread up his arm, rotated his shoulder and then he could lift his head.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Steve had pushed himself through worse.

“Rumlow,” Steve croaked. He was sure it sounded as strained as it felt to say. It got the other man’s attention though, even if he didn’t let go of Barnes’ chin. Steve watched in minute horror as Rumlow’s hand turned Barnes’ face, forcing him to look over.

Rumlow moved in luridly close to Barnes, looking for all the world to whisper in his ear. Steve could hear him though.

“Persistent, isn’t he?”

“Let him go.” Steve knew he didn’t sound intimidating. It wasn’t meant to be a threat. It was probably the closest he’d ever come to begging in his life. His next words slurred; his body only capable of one thing at a time. He was too busy trying to sit up, trying to get himself into a more stable, bargaining position. “Only need me.”

His body jolted as another shock ran through his system, and this time Steve was too physically depleted to resist.

Steve twitched, gasped, and then the world went black.

* * *

Mission Report: 22nd December 1981

2045 hours

**Vienna International Centre**

48°14′05″N 16°25′01″E

Vienna, Austria

File: 6108’46N

Subject: Captain Steven Grant Rogers

* * *

“Let’s just pause there for a moment.”

Steve had known it was coming. He could see the twitch of irritated disbelieve in Sitwell’s eyes. It made them squint behind his glasses and drew his lip up at the corner. A clear tell that he was growing annoyed and didn’t fully believe Steve’s account.

“Both Rollins and Rumlow – Rumlow _especially_ – are highly decorated agents.” Sitwell continued.

“Of course, they are,” Steve said simply. It made sense, after all. Only someone with a stellar history and a list of achievements under their belt could gain access to the type of information that the Soviets would want. “I’m sure that’s what made them so valuable to the Soviets.”

Sitwell frowned and made a show of pushing some papers around. It was like he thought the action made him seem important. Steve took a moment to glance to the side. The mirrored window showed him his reflection, battered and bruised, pale and tired; more ghost than man and for the briefest of moments, his mind flashed back to that defining folder about Barnes. How that photo of him in the Lubyanka made him look like a strange shell of himself. Steve didn’t let his emotions show, after all, he wasn’t interested in looking at himself. There were eyes back there, behind the two-way glass. Steve could feel them. They bore into his soul, weighted with questions and accusations and given the truths that Steve was bringing into the light, no doubt worried about security and the sanctity of SHIELD, the CIA and whatever other shady government branches were involved.

“You’re accusing them of treason,” Sitwell said, snapping Steve’s attention back to him. “That’s a grave allegation.”

“I’m not _accusing_ them of anything,” Steve interjected. “I’m _telling you_ that Rumlow and Rollins were working for the other side.” He grinned then, something about the way that Sitwell squirmed gave him a kick and made Steve want to press his point. Steve poked at his healing lip with his tongue, the action visible and pointedly made to be seen. “I have the marks to prove it.”

“If Brock Rumlow was-”

“He _was_ ,” Steve interrupted. “ _They_ were.” He leant forward, the chair creaking under the shift of weight, and leaned both arms on the table. Crossing his wrists over his forearms, he lowered his head and looked Sitwell dead in the eyes. “You spoke of Barnes before,” Steve reasoned. “And I asked you how he was discovered and captured by the Soviets.”

Sitwell didn’t look impressed at the change of topic, but that only gave Steve more reason to press on.

“I’m assuming you know that Barnes and Rumlow have history,” Steve smirked. “Or is that above your clearance? _Classified_?”

For the first time all evening, Sitwell looked shaken. Like Steve had just slapped him and then called his mother a string of dirty words. Steve liked it. It was a good look on the man, but it did have Steve’s mind racing.

Three months ago, he wouldn’t have spared the look Sitwell tried to hide a second thought. Steve would have assumed that it was just a general expression made during a conversation. Three months ago, Steve was naive to the way of the world and the darker inner workings of those that ran it.

Too much time with Barnes had made Steve suspicious, and maybe – just maybe – that wasn’t actually a bad thing. He saw things that he never would have noticed before, and now Steve saw Sitwell’s twitches for what they were. Small, almost inconceivable ticks. The sort that would get him destroyed in a poker game, or, more relatable, give him away in the very moments that counted. Moments like this one where both parties in a conversation were playing a dangerous game.

“How about I enlighten you on some of the details you’ve not been privy too,” Steve offered, sugar sweet and paired with a sardonic smile that threatened to crack the scab on his lip. The look Sitwell shot him was well worth the tinge of pain.

*****

**Part XVI Preview**

Steve felt his heart sink and his body freeze up. A rough prod in the back from a rifle barrel had him moving down, descending into the fluorescence gloom of the bunker. He heard another scuffle behind him and what sounded distinctly like a slap, but when he tried to turn his head, a hand grabbed at his hair and pushed him forward again.

Steve knew that this had to be driving Barnes mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really short chapter, and I am sorry for that. Sometimes it just happens that way. Given the length and weight of next chapter, I couldn’t add any more to that, so I had to decide to either cut the fight out completely and tell it through Sitwell narration, or do things this way. And from there, it was a choice of keeping it short, or adding filler. 
> 
> As much as I love description and deep diving into everything, I also know that this is a very trying fanfiction (omgicantbelieveivedoneallthisforafuckingfanfic ~~existentialcrisis~~ whatthefuckamIdoingwithmylife) that demands a lot from its readers as well. So padding the chapter with pointless extra to hit my usual length just didn’t seem right. 
> 
> Just know that you’re in for a hell of ride from here on in, and, at some point, you’ll probably look back on this chapter and remember ‘the good old days’. LOL. 
> 
> Also, choosing a preview for this chapter was just… oh damn! I don’t have or like kids, but I hear that most people thinking that picking a favourite child is hard. So I guess like, finding a passage for a preview was like picking a kid to keep or something. 
> 
> Either way, you’d all better be trembling in your seats right now and come into the next chapters fortified with booze and snacks. 😉


	17. Part XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so bad at remembering what day it is these days! 
> 
> Anyway. **Disclaimer time**. We’re getting to that point in the story where it's going to start earning its rating and the warnings I put all the way back in the first chapter. While nothing violent happens in this chapter, we’re getting there, and if you’re not feeling disturbed and kinda anxious by the end of reading this, then I’m clearly doing the whole writing thing wrong.

# Part XVI

Clarity wasn’t a welcome feeling. Not even Steve’s military training could get his body and brain on the same page. Things hurt, his eyes opened, and light was there and that, in turn, made his brain hurt. He was sure that he shut down under the pressure a few times, dozing in and out of consciousness during his struggle to force himself awake.

When he was finally able to concentrate and function, he meticulously started taking stock of his situation.

He couldn’t move. That was the first of his issues, though Steve had expected that all things considered. A quick pull of his arms and the resulting rattle told him all he needed to know. He could feel the cold touch of cuffs around his wrists and the press of a bar in between his arms. The rocking motion his body rolled with made it clear they were on the move. Steve gathered he was in a personnel carrier jeep, with his hands cuffed to the side guard rails.

Once he was game enough to open his eyes again and could tolerate the flickering light, Steve’s guess was proven correct. It seemed like a standard military vehicle; roll cage frame and steel, and from the way light filtered through the air vents and grates, Steve could tell that it was still daylight. They were also still in the forest, and while he couldn’t be entirely sure, the direction of the sunlight suggested that they were moving towards the east. It took a few moments for Steve to work out the math in his head, but taking direction and surroundings into account, he’d bet that they were aiming towards Abakan.

Barnes was beside him, only he was secured more intensely. His hands were still bagged, still locked in two sets of cuffs behind his back, with another looped around the bar and double fastened to the rail. He’d lurched forward, his head down and his eyes closed, but Steve could tell that he was awake.

If Barnes knew that Steve was awake, he didn’t show it.

Steve took the time to let his head settle. It was absolutely pounding. The constant throb putting any hangover he’d ever had to shame.

Two guards were sitting by the entrance of the cabin, but Steve didn’t know their faces. They, at least, were not part of the task force SHIELD had initially assigned to him. Both carried AK-47’s and wore a blankness on their faces that Steve had started to refer to as _Soviet Indifference_ in his head. He and Barnes were shackled at the back of the space, closest to the separate driver’s cab.

“Barnes?” Steve finally asked. He knew Barnes heard him. Steve could see it in the way Barnes’ jaw clenched, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

For the longest of moments, Barnes didn’t respond. His body rocked from side to side, lulled by the movement of the jeep over the treacherous road. It made his hair swing around his face, and Steve’s fingers itched with the want to tuck it back behind Barnes’ ears. Steve knew how much Barnes hated it when it was loose and hanging in his face.

Finally, Barnes gave in and straightened himself up enough to glance over at Steve. It was a fleeting, cold look, but at least it was something.

“Are you alright?” Steve asked. It was about as dumb a question as he could ever imagine, but the silence was killing him. His own mind was driving him insane. The memory of Rumlow standing over Barnes was all too fresh and real in his head, and knowing that he’d passed out bothered Steve to no ends. What had he missed?

“Just fuckin’ dandy,” Barnes replied. It was snide and sarcastic, but not aimed to hurt or insult. Steve took that as a good sign. He couldn’t see any apparent damage on his companion. Barnes was already supporting a darkening bruise around his right eye, but Steve was sure that had happened when he’d eventually succumb to the overwhelming numbers and been brought down.

“How do you know Rumlow?” Steve finally asked the million-dollar question. It still bothered him how quickly everything had happened. There was clearly bad blood between Barnes and Rumlow, but Steve couldn’t quite work out how, or why. Or, more accurately, he didn’t want to let his mind jump to dark conclusions. His mind baulked at the potential horrors.

Never one to make things easy, Barnes dropped his head and returned the question in kind. “How do you?” he countered.

All things considered; it was a fair question. “Some of these men were on the task force created for this mission,” Steve frowned. Barnes’ head snapped up at that, and Steve felt the full weight of Barnes’ glare.

It was astonishing how Barnes could keep so much hidden behind the impassive mask of his features, just as it was fascinating how a single moment could let everything slip. When he looked up at Steve this time, the mistrust and accusation was evident in his eyes. It killed Steve to know that Barnes was inherently suspicious of him.

“I’d never met them before,” Steve said in earnest. “I swear, Buck. They were just part of the unit assembled in London. I didn’t tell them anything about you. I didn’t tell _anyone_ about you. I swear.”

Steve wasn’t sure why he was so desperate to make sure that was known, but it was important to him that Barnes understood that Steve hadn’t willingly set him up. Barnes said nothing, not even a quip about the slip of his nickname from Steve’s tongue, and Steve felt a blind panic settle into his heart. It stretched beyond worry for their situation, and beyond the fear of their new unknown, and boiled right back down to the idea that Barnes hated him. That they were likely being forced towards their deaths and Barnes was facing it with hatred for Steve, and resentment in his heart. To Steve, it overshadowed the trite, expected old questions of _where are we going? and what happened?_

“Did your exposé file tell you how I got caught?” Barnes sighed. Finally.

Steve was so caught up in his panic that he almost missed the words. Barnes’ voice was strained and soft, the sound clearly caught between pain in his throat and not wanting to be too loud. They didn’t exactly have the luxury of privacy.

“No,” Steve said. There had been no specifics. Steve assumed it was on a mission, the details of the capture of The Winter Soldier blacked out for all but those with the highest clearance.

“The,” Barnes started. One word and a sigh. Steve frowned, fully expecting Barnes to shut down right there. But he shook his head, his knotted hair hanging limply around his face and obscuring Steve’s view. Maybe that was what Barnes had been waiting for, as he continued on the moment Steve couldn’t read his expression.

“The CIA. They thought they had a mole.” Steve shifted slightly, alleviating the pressure in his legs as he stretched them out. He wanted Barnes to know that he was here for this, that he’d listen to anything and everything he had to say. And not just because they were chained up next to each other. Hell, this very story had been pressing in on Steve’s mind from the moment he’d picked Barnes’ file up off his desk. How the hell did a decorated spy like Barnes end up captured and locked in the depths of Lubyanka?

“I found him.” No part of that sounded smug, or even proud. Barnes seemed defeated just saying those three words. “Or he found me. I-”

For all that Steve didn’t know about Barnes, he did know that Barnes struggled with his past. He couldn’t blame him. The things Barnes had seen and done; the things that had been done to him; they were unthinkable. It clearly didn’t help that he was restrained and immobile right now. Steve could just imagine how Barnes would rub at the back of his neck as he spoke about this if he’d been given that freedom.

“That’s the thing about double agents,” Barnes continued, “You all know about each other. In one way or another.” Steve had spent a lot of time imagining what Barnes’ life would have been like. How he played one side against the other and managed to stay ahead in the game. But he’d never really thought about the reality of other double agents. Moles within already compromised departments and rivals spying on each other.

“It would have been different elsewhere. In America. I would have gotten him. But we found each other, and I was on enemy soil. And,” Barnes sighed again. “The CIA wanted me to take him out. A shot in the dark. An end to the leak.”

Steve held his breath as he listened. This was the most detailed Barnes had ever been about his past, and Steve could see the twitchiness of uncertainty playing at the edges of Barnes’ features. Steve didn’t even want to breathe wrong for fear of spooking Barnes back into his usual silence.

“I didn’t miss.” He sounded vehement, spitting the words out like a cursed defence of his own skills. “I didn’t get the chance to miss.

“The fucking CIA called Rumlow in for backup. Backup that I _didn’t_ need. They sent the goddamn mole on the hunt for their mole.”

Barnes’ eyes fluttered closed, and Steve found himself doing the same. What a clusterfuck. It was so convoluted that Steve wasn’t even sure he could make sense of it in his own head.

“It all went to shit from there.”

“Do you think it was an accident?” Steve asked. He wanted to believe it was. A stupid oversight; one of the catastrophic proportions, but a mishap none the less. After all, Rumlow had been assigned to the task force that Steve was meant to be a part of.

Of course, that didn’t stop the niggling feeling of worry in the back of his mind. What if it didn’t stop there? What if this whole thing with Barnes ran higher up? It wasn’t like Barnes was some rookie who needed help with an assignment. If anyone could flush out and take down a covert double agent, then surely Barnes was the CIA’s best option. Why send in another agent in the first place?

What if someone deep in the pockets of the Soviets had set Barnes up to help cover Rumlow’s part in the whole mess?

If that was true, then the task force was a set up from the get-go.

“I stopped thinking about America and its shitty practices the moment Rumlow closed the door on me in Lubyanka.”

Despite his better judgement, Steve flinched at that. Not the anti-Americanism – he was used to that from Barnes by now, and honestly, the more Steve found out, the more he sympathised with Barnes’ ideals – but at the mention of Rumlow and Lubyanka. Steve wondered if Barnes had meant to let that little tidbit slip. It certainly explained a lot. Rumlow wasn’t just the person who’d caught Barnes, but he’d been _there_ ; an integral part of Barnes’ imprisonment. No wonder Barnes hated him.

“We’re going to work this out,” Steve resolved.

“You’re really annoying when you’re stupid,” Barnes snarked. It wasn’t the time or the place to rib him on, but Steve couldn’t help but smirk at that.

“I like to think of it as optimistic,” he grinned.

“Stupid,” Barnes repeated with such certainty that it put an end to the conversation.

Steve wasn’t about to be rattled, though. This was bad. This entire situation was the worst-case scenario imaginable, but that didn’t mean that they had to give up. It signified that they had to get creative. Steve knew it was pig-headed, but he refused to believe that there was no way out of this; they just had to wait for the right moment.

*****

Unfortunately for Steve’s plans, the right moment didn’t present itself in the back of the personnel carrier. When the vehicle finally came to a stop, the moment continued to elude them. Their guards unchained them and ferried them to the exit, and while Steve hadn’t really entertained any hope of making a run for it, the sight that greeted them as they were ushered out didn’t bode well.

He’d been right in assuming that they were heading to Abakan, or at least an area just outside of the city. On the way to Kashkulak cave, he and Barnes had given the town a wide berth, keeping clear of the signs of civilisation and the possible threat it offered. As they were forced out of the truck in the middle of what looked like a military airbase, it became apparent that avoiding Abakan had been the right call to make.

Barnes was silent at his side, his arms still pinned behind his back. His head was up now though, his sinister eyes watching everything and glaring hatred at the men around them. Rumlow was an ever-present threat, lingering on the sidelines and overseeing his men as they did the dirty work. Even restrained as he was, Barnes didn’t go easily. That desire to struggle only intensified as the soldiers pushed and prodded them towards a concrete box-like structure sitting ominously in the middle of the airfield.

The small building turned out to be precisely what Steve had expected. Nothing but another heavy door and then a steep staircase leading down into the depths of the ground. A military bunker with water-slicked metal stairs and oppressive concrete walls.

Steve felt his heart sink and his body freeze up. A rough prod in the back from a rifle barrel had him moving down, descending into the fluorescence gloom of the bunker. He heard another scuffle behind him and what sounded distinctly like a slap, but when he tried to turn his head, a hand grabbed at his hair and pushed him forward again.

Steve knew that this had to be driving Barnes mad.

“Barnes?” He didn’t know why he said it, and the name was met with yet another push. Barnes didn’t say a word, and the silence only helped to raise Steve’s panic.

He finally managed to get an uninterrupted view of his companion once they were on solid ground. Barnes’ face was unreadable; lips pressed into a thin line and eyes narrowed but wild, he gave little away. But Steve could see the fear. See the jumpy way he looked left and right and the slight twitch of his tensed jaw.

Steve did his best to keep his mind in the game. The stairs lead to a T-section of corridors, each lined with multiple doors. From the looks of it, it was only left or right from here, with each hallway ending in a wall of cement twenty to thirty meters away. It wasn’t a large place, but it was clearly well fortified.

The men behind him prodded Steve to the left just as those guarding Barnes scuffled him along to the right. For all of Barnes’ blank expression, he still wasn’t making it easy. He shoulder-checked a few of the men, pushing and resisting even with his arms still chained behind his back.

“Where are you taking him?” Steve demanded. He dug his heels in and pushed against his captors, trying to make his way closer to his companion, but his efforts were futile. Rollins had gotten Barnes under control and try as he might, Steve couldn’t break through the wall of soldiers flanking them in.

Barnes didn’t look back as he was manhandled down the dank hallway and out of sight.

“Rumlow!” Steve growled, his eyes seeking out the other man. It was foolhardy and pointless to expect Rumlow to offer anything other than a dark smile, but Steve still snarled when Rumlow grinned and winked his way.

The other man was as vile as they came. Steve remembered thinking that way back in London. He’d hated the way Rumlow and his posse had been all too eager to blow their way across borders with a spray of gunfire, and an American flag held high. It was even more disgusting knowing what Steve did now. They’d been so close to walking into a trap, and only minutes away from causing a political catastrophe. Rumlow would have pushed the task force right into the hands of the Soviets, and then would have labelled one of them a traitor when Rumlow and Rollins returned alone to the States.

While Rollins went with Barnes, Rumlow followed Steve down the opposite hallway and to the last door on the left. Rumlow pulled it open with a grin, his free hand waving towards the dank space it concealed.

“In ya go, Rogers,” Rumlow instructed. “Got a nice bed waitin’.”

The soldier behind him pushed hard enough that Steve stumbled forward, his feet scrambling to keep his balance. By the time he'd righted himself, the door was already slamming closed. It locked with a loud click, adding a sense of finality to the entire ordeal.

Steve tried the door – of course he did – but it was locked shut and didn’t budge an inch, not even when Steve threw all his weight against it. It was a Soviet war bunker, he reminded himself. This wasn’t some shanty hovel built of sticks and mud in the jungle. Most of these places were made with the intent to survive a nuclear blast.

Steve growled in frustration and began pacing like a caged animal. Back and forth he went, then around and around. Seventeen steps to the left and right, eleven steps back and forth. He mapped the room out over and over again, counting in his head to stop his mind from wandering. The light flickered periodically, but there was a generalised pattern. Three quick flashes and then between three and five minutes before the process repeated. Steve put it down to the possibility of an overworked generator, and he filed that speculation away for later use.

The hours ticked on, and try as Steve might, his mind began to wander. He thought back to that night in the gulag camp and the mysterious clues that Barnes had dropped about his escape. More so, Steve remembered what Barnes had said; _spend enough time alone in the dark, and we all start to look the same_. That had always sat heavily with Steve, and now in the flickering piss-coloured light of his own hell, he finally began to understand this aspect of Barnes’ past.

He tried not to think of Barnes now, or where he was. Logically, Steve knew that Barnes would be in a room like this and that they weren’t going to kill him, but that did little to settle Steve’s anxiety. Thinking rationally and coldly, Steve knew that they’d keep Barnes alive, if not just as a way to extract information, but also because of the political importance that Barnes played. All that Barnes had been through, his escape and time in Bucharest; the contacts he still had alive. There’d be hell to pay if the Soviet powers discovered that Rumlow and his men pointlessly murdered a spy with the intel that Barnes knew. The things in Barnes’ head could crumple the Romanian revolution before it even started.

Annoyingly, that didn’t make Steve feel any better.

He didn’t want them to kill Barnes, but he was also painfully aware of the cruelty of the regime, and the ways they dealt with their prisoners. It was a dark thought, but Steve knew deep down that Barnes would prefer a speedy bullet.

Steve tried to push his mind to more pleasant thoughts. He thought of home, and the way Sam would shake his head and tell him that he’d really gone and done it now. He thought of his classroom and how much he’d enjoyed teaching. And then his mind strayed to mysterious files and smiling faces and a lit cigarette. Rock music and a boxing ring and a man so deadly that Steve had felt himself fall instantly. He thought of the way that Barnes rubbed his neck when thinking or the way he tied his hair back with such gusto that Steve wondered why he kept it long in the first place.

Alone in his cell, Steve grunted again and pressed the balls of his palms in against his eyes. He had to focus; had to be prepared for when that door opened.

He needed a way to get Barnes out of this. Hadn’t Steve promised that he’d keep him safe? That he’d let nothing happen to him. Barnes had laughed at him over that, and now Steve could see the idiocy of his own words. He’d done exactly the opposite of what he’d tried to promise. Steve had led Barnes right into the hands of the people the resistance fighter had spent years avoiding.

Steve was sure he was going mad already, and it had only been a few hours.

When his feet finally started to throb, Steve sunk dejectedly into the corner. There was a wooden pallet and a straw-stuffed attempt at a mattress on the opposite wall, but there was no way Steve was going to use it. How many people had curled up and lost hope on that bed? He wouldn’t be one of them.

With little else to do, Steve turned his attention to the handcuffs still around his wrists. They were locked in front of him, which was a mild relief, but he’d been absentmindedly pulling at them the entire time he’d paced. He shifted them back and forth, trying to get the pressure and chafing to stop while peering at the locking mechanism. Steve didn’t know the first thing about trying to slip a pair of cuffs, or where to even start to try and force them to unlock. Not that he had anything to try and pick it with, anyway. Handcuffs weren’t part of military operation protocol, and there’d been little use for them in the damp swamps of Vietnam. Prisoners weren’t often taken.

Barnes would know what to do with them, Steve was sure of it. He probably even had fifty things hidden away on his body and in his clothes that would make the process easier. Clearly, he’d shown that aptitude before given the way Rollins had gone overkill on Barnes’ restraints.

Again, Steve’s concentration drifted. He remembered the way that Barnes had looked in his borrowed traditional clothes, and the way he’d vehemently snarled that he wouldn’t die for Steve’s cause or be taken alive. Steve then remembered how Barnes had still followed him, and how he’d stuck so close to Steve’s side in the oppressive darkness of the cave.

Time ticked on, and Steve lulled his head back against the cold wall and closed his eyes. He could still see the flickering light behind his eyelids, and he couldn’t help but count out the beats of his heart between the bright flashes.

Eventually, he was forced to relieve himself in the pan at the back of the room, and Steve felt a part of his own pride die at that. For all he’d seen and all he’d survived, he’d never been captured before. Never had to suffer through the indignity of being held against his will and treated like an animal. He’d known – and liberated – soldiers who hadn’t been so fortunate, and he’d been through base-level training where he’d sat in a classroom and listened to horror stories. But none of that compared to the real thing.

None of that compared to this, and this, Steve knew, didn’t even hold a candle to what Barnes had survived in the past.

Once again, he was struck by how strong the spy was. Barnes had endured this – and more – for a year, and Steve was ready to scratch at the walls after only a few hours. He wondered if it was a type of discipline. Like forced meditation, or if Barnes had also counted the beats between flickering bulbs and memorised the exact dimensions of his room. Had Barnes even had a light? Or a room large enough to pace in? Steve had heard all about the standing cells the Nazi’s used, and he’d seen similar things in pit form in Vietnam. He wouldn’t have put it past the Soviets to have their own version, or even something more twisted.

The more Steve’s mind wandered, the sicker he felt.

Bringing his knees up to his chest, Steve rested his elbows on his thighs, tucked his head into his hands and willed the time to pass.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Long enough for his body to cramp up and his neck to ache and his compulsive need to count seconds died out. When the door rattled with the force of the lock opening, Steve was too far gone to even bother moving. He simply lifted his head and peered into the fluorescent glow that outlined shapes at the door.

In his own fantasy world, that shape would have been Barnes. The spy would have found a way to escape, and he would have been coming to get Steve out. They’d take on the rest of the guards together and steal one of the vehicles. Barnes would drive like a mad man to get them away, or maybe he'd give the wheel to Steve so he could use his sharp-shooting skills to pick off anyone coming after them.

It was a beautiful dream, but like all good things, it ended far too quickly.

Steve would be able to pick Rumlow’s form out anywhere, and the shuffle of other feet on the cement heralded the arrival of more soldiers. A rifle was shoved in Steve’s face as Rumlow gave the order for him to stand. With little option, Steve climbed awkwardly to his feet, his joints popping and aching in protest before he was ushered out of the door. They only went two doors down before entering into what was clearly an interview room.

An interrogation room, Steve’s mind corrected.

The nameless soldier pushed him down into the seat, and Steve felt himself land heavily. He wasn’t sure if he took it as an insult or blessing that they didn’t try to restrain him any further. The fact that the soldier took up position at the door next to a second unknown man kept Steve from feeling too cocky, especially when they both unslung their assault rifles and held them at the ready.

Rumlow was clearly happy with the setup, and he moved into the room like he owned it. Once again, Steve couldn’t help but see similarities between him and Barnes. It was all in the confident swagger and the self-assured height of their chins. They both walked like men who knew they were dangerous, and Steve found himself wondering if they’d gone through the SERE C training together. That harsh regime no doubt left an effect on all who participated.

The darker side of him thought of other ways that fashioned them. Steve had known Rumlow only briefly, but he’d been depicted as the perfect American soldier. Trigger happy, but most soldiers were. But this wasn’t an American bunker, and the men with Rumlow and Rollins weren’t really American troops. God only knew how or why, but Rumlow was a double agent, clearly reporting to the opposite side to Barnes, and maybe the struggles of that life had been the thing to solidify the similarities between them.

“I should start by thanking you,” Rumlow said. He didn’t sit even though there was a chair opposite Steve. He paced and moved around before leaning against the desk to Steve's right. It was far too close for comfort, and if it wasn’t for the armed guards in the room, Steve would have made the sentiment physically known.

Steve opted not to question the words and kept his mouth shut. He didn’t give a damn about what Rumlow said, or why in the world the other man would want to try and be friendly.

“We’ve been looking for James Barnes – our _Winter Soldier_ – for a long time now,” Rumlow went and shattered all of Steve’s resolve, and it was a struggle not to rise to the bait.

One thing that did strike Steve was the admission of the search. All this time, Steve had been working on the assumption that Barnes was believed dead by both sides, but the way Rumlow spoke suggested otherwise. It made sense when Steve really thought about it. The Soviet’s wouldn’t go and admit to the Americans that they’d somehow lost their captive agent, so they’d carried on the ploy. Obviously, the photo of Barnes’ execution wasn’t real, but hell, the Soviets must have sent it as a way to hide the escape. A nameless, faceless person with enough of a resemblance that a black and white photo of them with a bullet through their brain would be enough to convince a government of their man’s demise.

It was as tactfully brilliant as it was callously mortifying. 

“He’s a tough man to track down,” Rumlow continued. “I’d love to know how you managed to do it.”

Steve rubbed his chapped lips together and kept his mouth shut. Whether Rumlow knew it or not, he’d just answered one of Steve’s own questions. From the moment Rumlow had shown up, Steve had lived with the gnawing feeling that Rumlow had something to do with all this. That maybe he’d been the one to leave Barnes’ file on Steve’s desk, as well as the following images. It had sat uneasily on Steve’s conscience, and even now knowing that it couldn’t possibly have been Rumlow did little to ease the guilt.

“You know we have ways of making you talk.”

Rumlow said the words like he was offering a gift. An easy way out that would have Steve opening up and spilling all his secrets and handing his findings over to the Soviet Union.

“Fair enough,” Rumlow continued. “Let’s move on. Where’s Chernobog’s sceptre?”

It was both a more straightforward and harder question, and even if Steve had felt like talking, he wouldn’t know how to answer it. Steve knew where it wasn’t, and he had a haunting count of hysteria that checked all the boxes of where he should go next, but he had no proof.

“I know you haven’t found it yet,” Rumlow mused. Steve almost had the heart to give him credit for that. Rumlow had never struck him as the brightest bulb in the box, but he was doing alright in putting two and two together. Maybe he’d had help.

Or maybe they’d made Barnes talk already. The thought sat heavily in the pit of Steve’s stomach. He didn’t believe that, and he didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t rule out any possibility. Barnes was a fighter, but Steve had seen the fear in his eyes, and read the terror in his posture. Barnes had also been adamant about not being taken alive, or dying for this mission; maybe he’d already spilled everything he knew in an attempt to buy his freedom.

Steve worried his bottom lip and opted not to say anything. He was sure he was just paranoid about Barnes, and that, if anything, the dark thoughts were born from worry.

“But I also know you’re something of a nerd. So you will find it.” Rumlow paced again, his steps taking him slowly around behind Steve. “And you looked very proud of yourself coming out of that cave.

“Either you found something to aid your search,” he said, and then Steve felt Rumlow’s face close to his, his body leaning against the back of Steve’s chair, “Or Barnes quit being a frigid bitch and dropped his pants for you, as he’s wont to do.”

Steve almost bit straight through his bottom lip. He wanted to kick back so badly; to slam his head into Rumlow’s chin and throw his weight against the chair and take him down. Steve’s whole body burned with the impulse, but his mind screamed otherwise. Rumlow was looking for that sort of response. He wanted Steve to lose his cool and inadvertently give himself away. To lash out would be to give plausibility to Rumlow’s taunting assumptions.

Steve had to be smarter, and so when his bottom lip hurt, he pushed down some more to hide his disgust. It wasn’t at the picture that Rumlow painted or even the idea that Rumlow had guessed at Steve's feelings for Barnes. The disgust came in the way Rumlow spoke. As if he knew something that Steve didn’t, and he knew it from experience.

“Hmmm,” Rumlow mused, the heat of it prickling Steve’s skin. “So, he hasn’t let you fuck him yet,” he concluded, “but you want to, don’t you?”

Steve tasted blood and snapped. His body worked on impulse, following through with his earlier thoughts. His head slammed back into Rumlow’s, and Steve took pleasure in the hiss of pain that followed. As he made ready to push back and tip them over, something cracked against the back of his neck. It felt like a baton, and before Steve could blink through the pain and fight back, Rumlow hit him again. The force of it sent Steve forward, his forehead cracking violently against the edge of the desk. The two blows put a quick end to his struggle as the room spun dangerously out of focus.

“You should know better than to attack what you can’t see,” Rumlow chastised. Steve’s suspicions of a bat were proven correct when Rumlow jammed it under his chin and used both hands to pull Steve’s head back up. The steel rod pressed against his throat and kept him pinned to the chair, cutting off air even as Rumlow breathed against the side of his neck.

Rumlow nodded at the guards, and they moved into the room. Steve snarled at them, expecting to be taken back to his cell, only Rumlow held onto his billystick and kept him pressed down in the seat. The guards slung their rifles over their shoulders and grabbed the table, shifting it to the side of the room. One left the room as the other stalked closer. Steve watched the man with narrowed eyes.

“That was really stupid, Rogers,” Rumlow said. The soldier grabbed Steve’s cuffed hands and yanked them to the side where he fastened them to the armrest with a thick tension strap. “We were having a nice conversation about Bucky’s lurid sexual preferences, and you just had to go and ruin it.” Steve closed his eyes and snarled at Rumlow even as the guard knelt and grabbed his legs. Steve kicked out, but the man was faster. And all it earned Steve was another tight yank to the club under his chin as the guard fastened his ankles to each leg of the chair with similar straps.

Rationally, Steve knew that things were about to get worse, but the moment the door opened again and two guards hauled Barnes through the door, Steve started to realise just how far Rumlow was willing to push.

*****

**Part XVII Preview**

Grunting against the makeshift gag, Steve pulled feverishly at the restraints. It achieved nothing more than a rattle of the chains and a pull of Rumlow’s hands, pressing the baton painfully against Steve’s teeth.

Rollins had a knife in his hand; Bucky didn’t react, but Steve did. Pain be damned. He yanked at the cuffs again, his legs straining against the straps in his desperation to be free. It was a futile action, and Steve was sure he’d never felt so helpless in his entire life. Even under the spray of bullets and surrounded by the screams of his men dying, Steve had at least been able to react. Been able to do _something_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh kids, we're in the endgame now! We’re hurdling towards the end so fast that it’s… scary? Exciting? I’m not too sure. Never really thought we’d get here, to be honest. Yet here we are! 
> 
> Now, I’m sure you’ll all very upset with me right now, so I’ll keep this short. 😉 Feel free to chime off in the comments and let me know what you think is coming up and, more importantly, how the hell they’re going to get themselves out of this one!


	18. Part XVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, we all knew this was coming!  
>  **Warning** for some extremely unsettling happenings, non-sexual power play and some good old-fashioned ‘torture for information’ tactics. Parental guidance recommended…?? IDK. But like, if you can’t get through a James Bond torture scene, or a violent episode of Game of Thrones or equivalent, then this chapter probably isn’t for you. 
> 
> Also, it totally (and excitingly) fills my [Bucky Barnes Bingo Car](http://minkawrites.com/bbb-card/)d for **K4 – Terrible Choices**

# Part XVII

Barnes was drenched, his clothes and hair dripping water as they dragged him in. Steve watched in horror as they dumped him into the opposite chair. Barnes didn’t struggle now, and the wet hair that clung to his forehead did little to wash away the stream of blood that trickled down the side of his face. He was shivering and compliant, even as Rollins moved around him, Barnes made no effort to look up. At least not until Rollins grabbed him by the hair and forced his head back.

Panic was starting to well in the pit of Steve’s stomach. Barnes didn’t look at him; Rollins shook his head, and Barnes’ eyes rolled, glassy and unfocused.

“Barnes?”

“Don’t worry, Rogers,” Rollins laughed. He pulled Barnes’ head to the side again before finally dropping his grasp. Barnes’ head slumped back down to his chest in a way that certainly did make Steve fret.

“He’s best when he’s tranquillized,” Rumlow explained.

“Didn’t have any, though,” Rollins finished. “But a good couple of whacks,” he poked at the side of Barnes’ temple with his finger to illustrate his point; Barnes’ head rolled on his shoulders in response, “does the trick just as well.”

Rollins’ hand closed around Barnes’ throat, and still, Barnes was too out of it to physically react. His tired eyes flared with the vague register of shock and the lack of air, but his body hung limply in the chair. The head wound was still bleeding profusely, and while now was hardly the time, Steve’s mind followed dark thoughts of what Rollins had already put Barnes through.

“Let’s try this again,” Rumlow stated, the words accentuated with another yank of the baton. “Where is Chernobog’s staff?”

Steve felt his conscience break in two. Giving up the location of such a powerful weapon was unthinkable, especially to the likes of Rumlow and his true allegiances. It was the exact thing that he and Barnes had fought to avoid. The reason they’d struggled so far and so hard. It was the reason that Barnes’ men had been shot down in Bucharest, and the reason they’d gone so far off the map, away from the eyes of oppressive governments and calculating minds and hidden agendas.

It was the desire to keep this power away from both sides of this pointless war that had driven Steve to Barnes’ door in the first place. In the wrong hands, this staff could bring about the death of millions and, if the legend was anything to go by, the end of all days.

But on the other hand, the staff was still hypothetical, and Barnes was real and alive, and Steve had vowed more than once to protect him.

It was the sort of choice that Steve was all too familiar with. Do the right thing, follow orders and don’t question; lead his men into battles that Steve knew they’d never win. Watch them get cut down by bullets or fall ill to the rot of trench foot and tropical disease. He’d made this choice over and over again, each and every time that he delivered riveting speeches of the American way and the price of freedom to impressionable recruits. What’s more, he’d lost count of how many lives he’d lost to pretty words and rose-coloured ideals.

He wouldn’t do that again. Couldn’t do it again. Not with Barnes.

Steve sucked in a deep breath and prayed that Barnes wouldn’t hate him for playing into Rumlow’s hands. Barnes was strong, and he was a fighter, but there was no way that Steve could sit back and watch whatever Rollins’ had planned.

“The staff is-”

Rumlow shifted by his side, moving in so close that Steve could smell his breath and feel it hot against his skin.

“Too late, Rogers,” he crooned. “You had your chance to do this the easy way. Now you need to understand the consequences of your actions.” 

“Rumlow. I’ll tell you-”

“It took _months_ to make him scream last time,” Rumlow cut him off. “I wonder how long it will take this time around.” Rumlow clipped him heavily on the shoulder, the action a horrible parody of a friendly pat. It made Steve’s flesh crawl.

“Rollins can be very creative.” 

“Rumlow.” Anything else that Steve was about to say was abruptly cut off by the unpleasant feeling of that baton being shoved lengthways into his mouth. The metal clunked painfully against his teeth, and with a threatening twist, Rumlow had it sliding up against the corners of his lips. It held his mouth open like a horse bit, and Rumlow used his grip on both the base and end to control Steve’s head.

“Watch,” Rumlow commanded. “You caused this with your silence, so the least you can do is give him the dignity of your attention.”

Grunting against the makeshift gag, Steve pulled feverishly at the restraints. It achieved nothing more than a rattle of the chains and a pull of Rumlow’s hands, pressing the baton painfully against Steve’s teeth.

Rollins had a knife in his hand; Bucky didn’t react, but Steve did. Pain be damned. He yanked at the cuffs again, his legs straining against the straps in his desperation to be free. It was a futile action, and Steve was sure he’d never felt so helpless in his entire life. Even under the spray of bullets and surrounded by the screams of his men dying, Steve had at least been able to react. Been able to do _something_.

The knife in Rollins’ hand flipped over, and Steve again prepared himself for the worst. Once again, that fear was met with something unexpected. Rollins didn’t go straight in for the cut of flesh or the stab of somewhere vital. Instead, he slid the knife along the seam of Barnes’ shirt, severing the material from his collar down over his left arm. Dread settled into Steve's stomach as Rollins pulled the wet shirt away from Barnes’ skin, revealing an unexpected flash of colour as he went. The more Rollins pulled, the more he revealed. Barnes had a large red star tattooed on the side of his left arm. Faded and worn, it still stood out like blood against the rest of his skin.

“You know what that means?” Rumlow asked. Clearly, it was a rhetorical question. Steve could feel drool pooling around his trapped tongue as his jaw worked at the gag. “It’s the Soviet star. A sign of being strong and unbroken.” Rumlow’s words were hot breath against Steve’s skin, “it means he bends to no one.” 

Steve had never seen it before, but then he'd never really seen Barnes without layers upon layers of clothing. Even in the boxing ring at The Red Door, he’d been in long sleeves. Despite the situation, Steve felt his fingers twitch with the desire to touch it. To trace those lines and ask Barnes why and how. Why did he get something so obviously Soviet etched into his body, and how; when?

In Steve’s mind, it would be a tender moment. Soft touches and hushed voices and a sense of inspired awe existing between only them. He could imagine soft sheets and Barnes with that sleepy-eyed look he got when he’d pushed himself too far and was ready to take a break. It should be sweet and kind and not marred with the horrors of this bunker. 

His fantasies were shattered by Rumlow’s voice near his ear. “I don’t think it really describes him anymore, do you?”

Steve growled in response, but Rollins answered. “No, it’s not so fitting now.”

Something transpired between Rollins and one of the guards, and while Steve was too busy trying to get any part of himself free, he missed the guard bringing a bucket into the room. Rumlow pulled at the baton gag to shake Steve’s attention.

“There’s an art to this,” Rumlow was saying, but Steve only had eyes for Barnes and the bucket in Rollins’ hands. “At least that’s what Rollins says. Not really my forte.” As he spoke, Rollins grinned, pulled the bucket back and then threw the water over Barnes’ exposed arm.

From the way it steamed off Barnes’ skin and the way his arm turned bright red, Steve knew it was hot. Boiling, even.

That woke Barnes up.

The spy went from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds. It would have been impressive to watch if it wasn’t so terrifying. Barnes sat up, his eyes blinking and his jaw tightening. For the first time since he’d been brought into the room, Steve felt like Barnes really saw him; really understood what was going on around him.

Barnes wasn’t happy.

His arms were still trapped behind his back, but, unlike Steve, he wasn’t strapped down. He’d been so placid when they’d brought him in that they’d overlooked the need to keep him fully restrained.

Barnes was on his feet and shoulder checking the first guard that came at him. The action was a double-edged blade; it sent the guard reeling, but Barnes staggered as well, the pain of his water-burned skin connecting with something solid clearly hindering his ability.

That was all Rollins needed. The larger man took the chance for what it was and ducked in behind Barnes even as Steve pulled and kicked and struggled to warn him. Rollins had a thick arm around Barnes’ neck, choking him out as he pressed a stun gun into Barnes’ side. The thug held it here with his finger on the trigger. One second, two. Three, then four and Steve watched as clarity slipped from Barnes’ eyes.

Panic welled up in Steve. It was too long. Rollins was holding it against Barnes’ skin too long, and he couldn’t breathe; Steve could see that in the way Barnes’ mouth lolled open and his eyes expanded. His body twitched under the pressure of the current running through him, but his limbs remained immobile, and when he finally sagged against Rollins’, the KGB agent rewarded him with another zap of the gun.

“I like it when he struggles,” Rollins laughed. His tone made Steve sick to the stomach, and his paranoid mind couldn’t help but traverse dark paths of previous encounters. Just what had these men – these American agents – done to Barnes in the past? Barnes had said that he’d been caught while trying to take Rumlow out; that Rumlow had been the double agent in the mix, and clearly that also included Rollins.

Steve couldn’t believe that he’d almost fallen for their act back in London, or that the likes of Agent Carter and Agent Coulson had been blindsided by these two. What’s more, it made Steve question everyone he’d met so far. How deep did the corruption go, and what was the driving force behind it? Neither Rumlow nor Rollins seemed like the Soviet communist type, which was confusing to say the least. Either there was something else at work here, or the two double agents really were willing to do anything for money.

With Barnes a limp, shivering mess, Rollins got him back into the chair quickly, and one of the guards stepped forward to secure his legs, much like they’d done to Steve.

“Hold him,” Rollins instructed as he moved to get the knife he’d dropped in the scuffle. Steve watched in horror as the guard did as told without a blink of question. The man moved in behind the chair, his hands clamping down on Barnes’ shoulders, dangerously close to his throat, and pulled him as flush back as Barnes’ trapped hands would allow. 

“Ya see,” Rollins explained. Steve gathered it was for his benefit, but there’d never been words that he’d been so desperate to tune out before. “You first need to tenderize the skin. The blister makes it easier to peel, but gotta get it all loose.”

And with that, his fist pounded into Barnes’ upper arm with enough force to rock the chair. The Soviet soldier holding Barnes down grunted, his shoes squeaking across the bare concrete floor and the sound blended with Barnes’ pained gasp.

Rollins struck again, and it was Steve’s turn to thrash. He could taste nothing but metal, though if it was from the baton in his mouth or the tang of blood on his tongue, he couldn’t tell.

One more hit seemed to do the trick for Rollins, and Steve watched in horror as he picked his knife up again.

No. No. No. Panicked as Steve was, his mind was still able to register the threat; the intention behind the way Rollins’ moved and the way he held the knife in his hand. Thrashing against the ties and gag, Steve rocked his chair back into Rumlow in a desperate attempt to be free. Or to cause enough distraction that they’d leave Barnes alone.

His efforts were in vain.

The first cut made Steve stop. He could see Barnes’s jaw clenching, his eyes rolling heavenward and his body tensing. It could have been a sign of pleasure if not for the way his eyes watered almost instantly and the way he violently jolted against the chair. Blood seeped immediately in the knife’s wake; large, thick drops that raced heavily down the side of Barnes’ arm. They pooled in the folds of his open sleeve, soaking the material through.

Barnes didn’t make a sound, but Steve made enough for the both of them.

With the metal bar still wedged between his teeth, Steve screamed his throat raw, the sound rumbling deep and dying in his open mouth.

Rollins worked methodically and deftly, his knife slitting wounds in straight lines that sliced down through Barnes’ tattoo. The red of the star darkened with that of blood, the colour running like morbid watercolour down the pale expanses of Barnes’ skin.

When Rollins shifted the grip on his knife and angled the tip down, digging into the ribbons he’d cut, Steve felt a part of himself die. Hope. Reason. Logic. The foolish ideals of a greater good and the desire to do what was right. It turned to ash in his mouth and rotted his lungs black.

A flick of the wrist, a snarl of pain and then Rollins pinched the skin and started to pull. Steve felt his insides lurch. He'd never had a weak stomach, and god only knew that he’d seen some disgusting things in his time. Trenches filled with Punji Sticks and the infection that took to skin after an encounter had steeled him against the most appalling of sights. They were things that had haunted Steve for years and would remain in the darkest of his memories for the rest of his days.

There was still a difference though; a defined line in the metaphorical sand of what was terrible but expected. Men with feet blown off by secretive cartridge traps were soldiers marching towards death and destruction. Scared, confused and far too patriotic, yes, but they were still moving. Still armed and ready to defend themselves even as the enemy toyed with them.

That was what made this even worse. Barnes wasn’t a soldier following orders; not now and not even beforehand. He wasn’t armed and ready to defend himself. He was captured and restrained like an animal, with choice and freedom stripped away from him. And, what’s more, Rollins liked it. It was there in his eyes. A devilish gleam that betrayed his twisted soul and the enjoyment he found in inflicting pain. Even the Soviet soldier holding Barnes down had looked away, his chest heaving in a way that proved he was struggling to keep control of his stomach.

Time stood still, cold and impassive. Rollins pulled, Barnes sagged, and Steve’s world crumbled. Rumlow held his head in place with the makeshift bit, rattling it against his teeth any time Steve let his eyes fall closed. Eventually, there was a flash of silver again, and Steve retched dangerously as Rollins sliced his way through the bottom of the ribbon he’d carved out of Barnes’ arm.

Like some manic madman, Rollins held the flap up for all to see, before tossing it to the floor at Barnes’ feet. It landed with a wet splat, marking yet another sound that Steve knew he’d never forget.

“You did this,” Rumlow cooed. “You could have made this easy. Just told me what I wanted to know.” Steve could feel the way Rumlow shook his head by the way the air moved next to his face. Rumlow was so close that Steve could taste his breath and feel his own skin prickle from his vile disregard for space.

“If you’d told me when I first asked, then we wouldn’t have had to hurt him.”

Steve wasn’t so sure about that. The guilt sat brutally and thickly, but men like Rumlow and Rollins would have found a way to cause pain without needing an excuse. It didn’t free Steve from the shame and the sickening feeling of knowing that he could have – _should_ have! – stopped this, and he’d never forgive himself for dragging Barnes into this situation, but he couldn’t change the nature of their captors. 

Blood was oozing from the deep, flayed gash, rolling down Barnes’ arm like red molasses. Rollins went in for round two, and Steve’s jaw ached from Rumlow’s violent shakes. Steve’s eyes kept closing, kept trying to push the vision of Barnes in agony out of his reality.

Steve lost track of how long he watched, his eyes wet with tears. Blood dripped to the floor, free-falling from Barnes’ elbow as the red star was excruciatingly stripped from his skin. Barnes seemed to float between lucid and not, and each time his head dropped, Steve hoped that it would be consciousness fleeing him. At least Barnes wouldn’t feel the pain then.

But Barnes was strong, and he was stubborn, and he still hadn’t made a _fucking_ sound. It broke Steve’s heart just as much as it hardened him more, and when Rollins grabbed Barnes by the chin, pulling his head up, Steve saw red. Despite everything else that was happening, and how horrible it was, there was something so wrong about the way Rollins touched Barnes. It was too personal, turning something that should be intimate and endearing into something assertive and perverted. Steve had initially hated Rumlow for that very reason – he still did – but Rollins was something else entirely.

With his hands tied and his arm bleeding, Barnes was putty in Rollins’ hands, his eyes rolling backwards as his head no doubt spun. Still, the moment Rollins was in close and personal, Barnes spat in his face with a snarl that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

Steve flinched as Rollins backhanded Barnes across the face. It didn’t have the desired effect, though. Instead of subduing Barnes further, the blow seemed to knock him back into the present. Snarling as he spat blood to the floor, the spy put voice to words that Steve wished he could.

“ _Иди на хуй_ you _s_ hit-eating Yankee cunt!” Barnes snarled.

“You little bitch,” Rollins spat. Steve could see Barnes flinch as the words splattered wetly against his face.

When Rollins moved, it was with a speed that seemed unlikely for his size. He was a big guy, stocky and tall, but he still whipped out like a snake when provoked. Rollins had the knife hovering near Barnes’ eye, pressing it dangerously close with the bloody edge against Barnes’ cheek.

“Rollins!” Rumlow barked.

The order fell on deaf ears, and Steve’s panic began to rise. A bead of blood trickled down Barnes’ cheek like a tear and Steve thrashed against his bonds again.

“Rollins!” Rumlow repeated. “Stand down.”

Rollins stepped back with a snarl and a flick of the knife. It flashed in front of Barnes’ face, millimetres away from causing harm. Steve jerked in fear, but Barnes didn’t flinch. Not even for a moment.

There was a clear note of malice as Rollins adjusted his grip on the knife and turned his attention back to Barnes’ arm. It was of little respite to Barnes. As the blade started lifting up another section of skin to peel, Steve couldn’t help but wonder if Barnes had been deliberately pushing. If he would have preferred it if Rumlow hadn’t put an end to Rollins’ threat. Maybe he’d been hoping that Rollins would jump the gun and just kill him.

It would make the pain end, at least.

Barnes endured Rollins’ sneers, and he gritted white teeth as skin was peeled down and red meat below was exposed. He bore it in silence even as Steve thrashed and tried to yell.

By the time the fourth chunk hit the floor, Steve could tell that Barnes was close to blacking out. It was all in his eyes; a distant glassiness that came with pain. Steve had seen it before, back in the days of jungle leaves and muddy ground, after a spray of bullets or the boom of a grenade.

He’d seen it in the eyes of men dying. 

As painful as it was to think about, Steve knew Barnes wasn’t about to die. The spy had been through too much to let something like this be the end of him. Some burnt skin and peeled flesh didn’t constitute a death warrant for someone as hard and resilient as Barnes. Blissful unconsciousness, maybe, but not death.

Barnes was too fucking good for that.

Somehow, though, that actually made things worse. Knowing that Barnes could withstand so much more opened the door wide for callous cruelty.

Thankfully, Rumlow seemed ready to give civility another try. He pulled the baton from Steve’s mouth with a painful clash of teeth, and while Steve’s jaw ached and drool covered his chin, there was only one thing he could focus on.

“Where is-”

“Lena Pillars. Lena Pillars,” Steve gasped out, the words flowing together in his desperation. Rumlow didn’t even get to finish the questions. The words were said before he’d even tried to suck air into his suffocated lungs.

“See. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Rumlow crooned, his breath a hot puff against Steve’s skin. Steve didn’t agree – not in the slightest – and he was sure that Barnes would have laughed at the idea of this being easy if he hadn’t been so close to passing out.

“You should answer when asked a question, Steve.”

Steve had never felt so patronized in his life. Worse still, he found himself shaking his head and answering automatically, the shock of the situation mixing with his incessant need to make them stop hurting his companion.

“So,” Rumlow continued. He’d finally moved back from leaning over Steve, and Steve tracked the sound of his boots on the floor. Steve didn’t want to see Rumlow right now, and he didn’t care how the man moved around him like a bloodthirsty hyena.

It felt like a lifetime ago when Barnes had done the same thing to him. Barnes had been up in his space, dark and threatening and pacing intimidating circles around him, and Steve had found it hot. There had been something animalistic in Barnes and the way he moved, and it had called to Steve in all the right ways. When it had been Barnes, Steve hadn’t been able to take his eyes off him.

Rumlow was a completely different story, and when Steve did look up, it was only because of where those footfalls stopped. The son of a bitch was leaning down near Barnes, his head tilted to the side as he inspected Rollins’ handiwork.

Steve growled lightly in his throat, not even aware of the sound he made.

“Tell me more,” Rumlow finally said. He stood, his back straightening and his damn hand rolled over Barnes’ lowered head, ruffling his hair. It was a twisted perversion of an already condescending action.

Rumlow’s hand twisted in Barnes’ hair, yanking and drawing his head up. Barnes hissed, but Steve wasn’t sure if it was from the pain or from the way Rollins leant in from behind him, his arms braced on Barnes’ shoulders sickeningly casually.

“What do you want to know?” Steve asked earnestly. He wasn’t trying to be elusive or secretive. He’d tell them anything they wanted to know; there just wasn’t much to actually tell. “It should be at Lena Pillars.”

“ _Should_ be?” Rumlow asked. He’d dropped Barnes’ head and moved away, but Rollins was still there, still towering over Barnes and closing him in. Rollins grinned that shit-eating grin of his as he casually twirled the handle of his knife right in front of Barnes’ face. It slipped between his fingers, rolling and twirling and flashing silver and blood red. Steve wanted to break them. Those fingers. He wanted to crush each and every joint and knuckle until bone felt like sand and Rollins would never hold anything again.

Steve breathed deeply as he narrowed his focus on Rumlow. The man in front of him was the key to this; convince him and then he’d keep Rollins off Barnes. It was easier now that Steve could see that; it made a step by step plan to be followed.

“Everything points there.” He was too scared to take his eyes off Rumlow. Dealing with Rumlow was like staring down a rabid dog and Steve was sure that looking away first would be a death sentence.

“I don’t know where exactly,” Steve kept talking. The more he rambled, the less likely they were to turn their attention back to Barnes. “But there’ll be signs. Petroglyphs. Ancient people always left records of their myths. They’ll be somewhere. We’ll ask locals.”

Rumlow clearly wasn’t impressed with this revelation. He looked put out, like Steve had taken his dreams and crushed them underfoot. Maybe he’d been naive enough to think that Steve had a real plan and a designated spot on a map. It wasn’t like that and it never had been.

“It’s what we would have done,” Steve rationalized. “We’ll have to search. If it was as easy as looking it up in a history book, then someone would have found it already. We’ll have to follow the beliefs of the local people.”

Steve had never been a religious man. He’d seen too much bad in the world to fool himself into believing in some all-powerful being up in the sky. What sort of a god would let their world descend into chaos and the insanity of war? How could an ambivalent power sit back and watch as people like Rollins did what they did to people like Barnes and not interfere?

Of course, this entire mission could prove Steve wrong; could bring him to his knees in front of an exalted being and have him pleading for forgiveness. Maybe there was a whole host of gods from all the world's religions up there, playing poker while the world burnt. They’d left their wisdom and their stupid weapons of mass destruction and had just given up on what they’d created. Ruled the world out as a botched experiment and started an alternative somewhere else.

When Steve thought of it like that, then maybe he was a religious man after all.

Rumlow seemed to understand. He didn’t look happy about it and his jaw flexed a few times as he mulled the words over, but, for the most part, he seemed to see the merit in Steve’s words.

Rollins was another matter entirely.

“We only need him,” Rollins said casually. The cold detachment in his tone had Steve’s blood running cold, and it would have been impossible to miss the way that Rollins glanced towards Barnes.

Steve had been frightened of that the entire time. They’d pushed an impossible decision at him; tell them what they wanted to know, or let Barnes suffer. The worst thing was, there was always a third option. An unspeakable one that could still follow no matter what Steve decided to do. Once he told them everything, then Barnes was expendable. Rumlow didn’t need a translator or guide. He didn’t need someone who knew the lay of the land; he had the entire Soviet fucking Union at his beck and call.

They needed Steve. Not Barnes.

All three men seemed to know and understand that; it was clear in the way Rollins leered, and the way that Rumlow glanced between Barnes and Steve and back to Barnes. Steve knew for sure that his desperation was apparent.

Maybe it was a form of mercy or maybe it was just a moment's delay for what was to come, but when Rumlow finally spoke, it at least wasn’t a death sentence.

“Take him back to his cell,” Rumlow instructed. Steve shook his head frantically. He didn’t want to have Barnes out of his sight - couldn’t deal with that – and Rollins certainly shouldn’t be left with the spy.

“Sir, we don’t-”

“I said,” Rumlow interrupted. “Take him back to his cell.”

Behind him, Rollins practically rolled his eyes, his top lip lifting in a snarl as he clicked his fingers at the man holding Barnes’ down. Another of the guards came into the room, and they all but hefted Barnes out of his seat and dragged him to the door. Rollins led the way, and Barnes hardly stirred, his shoes scuffing as he let himself be hauled out of the room.

“He needs help,” Steve implored again. “That wound can’t go untreated.” Especially not in a place like this. It would be so easy for infection to take hold, and given the circumstances and Barnes’ mindset to being captured, that wouldn’t bode well. 

Rumlow leaned in close, his breath hot and sour against Steve’s skin.

“Be thankful I’m keeping him alive.”

Steve had never been good at concealing his emotions, especially his hatred, but he tried. Nothing would change the fact that he wanted to rip Rumlow apart with his bare hands, but he needed to play civil for Barnes’ sake. If Rumlow saw that Steve was cooperating, then he might be more lenient.

“You so much as breathe out of turn…” Rumlow didn’t have to finish the threat for Steve to start nodding. He understood. Rumlow was happy to keep Barnes alive as long as the Romanian spy could be useful in controlling Steve. A bargaining chip and a living, breathing way to keep Steve in line and cooperative.

It was a shitty situation to be in, and rationally, it severely complicated things, but at least it would keep Barnes alive. Steve had vowed that he’d protect Barnes, and as much as Barnes had laughed in his face, and as poor of a job that Steve was currently doing, he did intend to keep his promise.

“Now,” Rumlow said as he straightened up. He seemed to enjoy lording his height over people, especially when sitting; maybe it came from the fact that both Steve and Barnes were taller than him when standing. “Take some time to think about what you’ve done.”

And with that he was moving away, leaving Steve strapped to the chair in a room with Barnes’ blood and skin on the floor.

The door closed, plunging the room into darkness and Steve finally let himself slump in the chair. After that, the tears came easily.

*********

**Part XVIII Preview**

“There’s always a choice.” Sitwell reasoned with all the level-headed clarity of someone who’d never had to watch someone else bleed. “You could have lied.” Typical spook. Never tell the truth; never give anything away. It was such a shady government move that Steve couldn’t really hold it against the agent. He probably knew nothing else, nor anything morally better.

“Lying would have risked Barnes.”

“Captain Rogers.”

“ _Professor_ ,” Steve corrected. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! So I’m home!! Well. Still not really but I’m another step closer ( _to the edge and I’m about to break_ – Linkin Park lyrics will never be forgotten) 
> 
> I’ve finally made it from Sydney and across the Queensland border. Yay. Got approval to do it Monday and it was one of the hardest, most messed up days ever. It was easier to cross COUNTRY borders in Eastern Europe on the final few days of my visa (and with no registration record of my stay) than it was to cross the STATE border here. 
> 
> I’m in self-appointed isolation again. I didn’t _need_ to quarantine (Sydney is no longer a ‘hot spot’) but I booked a place anyway, just in case. I’m free to roam around and be outside as the chances of me having been exposed to COVID-19 are very slim, but on the off chance that I did pick something up, morally, I didn’t want to go and crash with my BFF and her family just yet. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Anyway. Enough about life. I’m going to tease the fact that there will be an exciting announcement regarding fics coming to a page near you soon! Aka, keep your eyes peeled for Minka stuff. 
> 
> In the meantime, how did we all like the torture? Let’s discuss. Things were very quiet last chapter, so I’m hoping you’re not all cowering in corners and crying ~~over real world, realistic consequences~~ and you’re still around. 
> 
> After all, putting characters through hell, both physically and mentally, just makes it so much better when they rise up again! And you should all know how much I love a dangerous, against-all-odds Bucky by now. 😉 
> 
> OH! Also! Who do we all hate more; Rumlow, or Rollins??


	19. Part XVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Using this chapter to cross off **U2** – _Touch Starved_ from my [Bucky Barnes Bingo Card](http://minkawrites.com/bbb-card/). 
> 
> So yeah… I feel you guys might like this chapter 😉

# Part XVIII

* * *

Mission Report: 22nd December 1981

2130 hours

Vienna International Centre

48°14′05″N 16°25′01″E

Vienna, Austria

File: 6108’46N

Subject: Captain Steven Grant Rogers

* * *

“So, you told the Soviets where to find the artefact.”

Steve clenched his jaw. His eyes flicked from the notes that Sitwell had been scribbling up to lock on the man’s face.

It should have been evident that Sitwell’s mind would narrow in on that fact. That he’d brush over the horrors that Steve had been forced to witness, and the pain that had been inflicted on Barnes, and move right on to the crucible of the point.

“I didn’t have much choice,” Steve said flatly. He reached for his water again.

Somewhere around the first mention of the cell, Sitwell had called for refreshments. There was a pot of coffee on the table now, sitting on a small burner, and a plate of sandwiches cut into triangles. Steve wasn’t sure why, but they offended him. They were so uniform, so white and standard; a perfect reminder of privilege. After so long near starving out in the wild of Siberia, the notion that Sitwell could basically click for food and have it delivered made Steve feel ill.

So he’d stuck to his water, and poured himself another glass as Sitwell mulled over his words.

“There’s always a choice.” Sitwell reasoned with all the level-headed clarity of someone who’d never had to watch someone else bleed. “You could have lied.” Typical spook. Never tell the truth; never give anything away. It was such a shady government move that Steve couldn’t really hold it against the agent. He probably knew nothing else, nor anything morally better.

“Lying would have risked Barnes.”

“Captain Rogers.”

“Professor,” Steve corrected. It was the same old dance. The same pieces being moved around the well-worn gameboard. Sitwell liked to throw Steve off with reminders of his past, just as Steve liked to shoot Sitwell down with a contradictory word and a shift of his bodyweight in the seat. The chair would groan, Steve’s arms would come to the table, and he'd press; push down with all his might while leaning in with a parody of innocence. The sound highlighted his weight and his build and the fragile restraint in Steve’s eyes, and Sitwell would try not to squirm. Steve would smile.

“Of course,” Sitwell said, his words a mirror of the ones grit out between a fake smile hours ago. Only now the cracks were starting to show. There was tension behind Sitwell’s eyes and a sharp turn to his lips as he falsified his compliance and swallowed down his irritation at being corrected once again. He patted at his notebook, and his thumbs brushed the edge of the table. A nervous tick, perhaps?

Steve could see it now. Read it. Play it.

Out in the destitute snowdrifts of the Soviet Union, he’d learnt a lot from Barnes. Time had been on their side, and Barnes had been interesting to study.

“Professor,” Sitwell started again. “I understand that you and Barnes formed an… _attachment_.” He said the last word like it was sour on his tongue; a bite that stung with salt and turned his stomach.

Maybe Steve had been open about his feelings – at least as free as possible – but he took pleasure in knowing that it threw Sitwell off his game. He liked to see the other man squirm each time Steve gave a hint to a personal detail or mentioned how Barnes looked bathed in moonlight, or wide-eyed and terrified in the foothills of Kashkulakskaya cave. Sitwell was full of so many interesting reactions. Microexpressions that he tried valiantly to hide and suppress, but the longer they sat in this room, face to face and with nothing but the table between them, the better Steve was getting at picking those moments out.

“But when it comes to national – no, _worldwide_ – security, certain sacrifices need to be made.”

“I’m not in the habit of trading lives,” Steve said. Cool, even and calm toned, he cocked his head to the side and watched as Sitwell raised an eyebrow between his round glasses.

“The hard truth is,” Sitwell carried on. Steve dug his nails into his own skin to keep from losing control. “That the life of millions is worth more than one.”

“I doubt that the United States of America knows much about loyalty,” Steve pressed. Sitwell’s eyebrow rose even higher; a feat that Steve hadn’t thought possible. “But I do. Putting his life at further risk was not an option.”

“Barnes is an operative of the state. It is his job, and his duty to be at risk,” Sitwell said with an air of importance and pompous intelligence. It was the sound of a man who hadn’t realised the trap he was walking into. “And to pay the price for freedom and liberty.”

“Was.”

“Excuse me,” Sitwell faltered.

“He _was_ an operative,” Steve smiled, and as he moved again, this time leaning into the backrest of the chair, the creak of the wood sounded as smug as he felt. “You said it yourself. He used to work for you. Currently doesn’t. Because he was dead, right? Burned. Executed for his crimes against one country in the name of another.”

The mental hiccup in Sitwell’s mind was visible. Steve could see it in the way the other’s face twitched. It started at his eyes; a subtle spasm that reverberated across his cheek and down to the side of his mouth, like a pebble being thrown into an otherwise calm lake.

“The way I see it,” Steve clarified, enjoying the break in Sitwell’s usually stony expression, “is that Barnes was no longer on active duty; thus he was a civilian, being illegally held against his will and _tortured_ by a Soviet unit led by not one, but two American traitors. Traitors who the United States Government has had in their employ for years now, without ever noticing their true allegiances.

“So, yes. I made my choice. I told them what they wanted to know.” Steve sat up straighter, and this time, when he turned his attention back to that glass wall, he smiled. “And if you don’t like that, then with all due respect, you can go fuck yourself.”

*****

The fog sat heavily, blanketing the ground and rising up with the opening of the hatch. It swirled and hissed as the soft flurries of snow touched the hot metal of the engines, and Steve felt the brush of ice against his face.

Shivering in his seat, Steve shifted closer to Barnes. The wounded spy was still unconscious, his head resting on Steve’s shoulder. Steve itched to reach out and touch; to brush a hand along Barnes’ cheek and push that hair away from his sweat-drenched brow. It was a palpable, crippling want, and Steve’s hands twitched against their bonds just thinking about it.

Maybe it was that movement, or perhaps it was the cold, but Barnes shifted, his body turning stiff and rigid as he slowly became lucid. Steve had seen Barnes wake before. Much like Steve himself, Barnes went from asleep to awake and functional within the space of a second. Usually, at least. The man that woke up beside him now was confused and disoriented, with pain in his eyes and panic as the only response.

Barnes had taken a turn during the flight, his skin going clammy and his body jolting with tremors. He needed medical assistance, and to have his bandages changed. They were ruddy brown with dried blood, and Steve knew enough of battlefield medical knowledge to understand that was bad. He’d tried asking some of the soldiers during the flight, but with Rumlow and Rollins in the cockpit, it left their Soviet crew as watchdogs, and either they didn’t speak English, or they were all too happy to ignore Steve’s pleas.

After a while, Steve did the only thing he could. He’d slid along the unforgiving bench as much as his chain would allow and managed to get his shoulder in under Barnes’ head. That had helped to still Barnes, and once his shivers had subsided, he’d calmly slept the rest of the flight.

“Shhh,” Steve tried to soothe. It didn’t help much, and Steve was forced to watch as Barnes’ automatic response was to try and move his arms. The result was two-fold. The chains around his wrists rattled where they were cuffed, and the jerking reaction pulled at the wound on his shoulder. The sound Barnes made at the rush of pain threatened to break Steve in two.

“Calm down,” Steve whispered. They’d already landed, so it was only a matter of time before one of the soldiers came for them, but Steve didn’t want to risk hurrying the intrusion by speaking too loudly. He wanted to tell Barnes that everything would be alright and that they were going to be okay, but Steve had never been good at lies.

The words would have been lost to the sound of the cockpit door opening anyway, and given that it was Rumlow who walked out first, Steve’s attempts to soothe would have fallen on deaf. Barnes straightened beside him, moving away from his shoulder, and Steve instantly felt the lack of body warmth.

Rollins was also there, as always, and just the sight of him turned Steve’s stomach. It was too easy to remember the gleam in his eye and the shine of a knife in his hands.

Of course, Rollins moved to Barnes; it would have been too much to hope for one of the nameless soldiers to be the one to lean over him and undo the chains. Barnes shifted and lifted his chin in defiance as Rollins came closer, and Steve grit his teeth as the man did little to not seem threatening. The guy was an asshole, and Steve had never wanted to hurt someone as much as he did Rollins.

“Come on, precious,” Rollins sneered, “time to get up.”

Barnes’ eyes flashed to Steve’s as they were pulled to their feet without further explanation, and Steve felt the weight of the other’s fear bearing down on him. He did his best to remain impassive and stoic, and offered Barnes a small, hopefully assuring nod. Steve had no cards up his sleeve or great plans of escape, but it would do neither of them any good if he gave in to his own fears and let them show. Right now, Barnes needed strong and calm and an element of hope. Steve would do his best to give that to him.

A push got him started, and then Steve followed Rumlow through the empty cargo deck.

Steve didn’t know much about Soviet Union transport aircrafts, but he figured that they were all basically the same. He’d spent a lot of time loading and unloading them in Basecamp Evans back in ‘Nam, and while he and Barnes had spent the ride in the paratrooper seating, they’d been marched in through the back-hold doors. At the time, the cargo deck had been empty, and they hadn’t spent long enough onboard before take-off to really justify too much being packed in.

It was a little thing to notice, but Steve’s brain calculated it all the same. The plane was large enough to carry at least two vehicles – more if the hold remained mostly empty – and yet Rumlow and his men hadn’t brought their trucks. That meant that they had contact wherever they were landing, and they were walking into a fully stocked operation.

Maybe Barnes’ way of thinking was finally rubbing off on Steve, but his mind kept going. Clearly, supplies and transport wasn’t a worry for Rumlow, which suggested they’d landed at another military base. They couldn’t do that without prior communication, which, in turn, meant that there was now a paper trail outlining that he and Barnes had been found, and a record of where they were planning to go. On top of that, Rumlow was clearly the one calling the shots here, which solidified Barnes’ previous revelation of just how deep Rumlow was within the Soviet Union.

Putting all those points together, and considering the instant chill in the air, Steve guessed that they’d landed in Yakutsk. It was the only place – at least that he knew of – that would make sense. It was close to the pillars, while still being a civilised place with enough sway to have a military presence.

Steve didn’t put much faith in the memory of the maps he’d seen, but if they were in Yakutsk, it meant that they were about as remote as they could get, deep in the heart of Siberia and edging on the cusp of winter.

That, at least, would explain the bloody cold.

They walked down the loading ramps and descended into the deep fog. Steve couldn’t even see the back of Rumlow’s head as they made their way down the gangway, and the moment Steve’s feet touched the ground, he felt a chill through the soles of his shoes.

It was freezing.

Not cold but actually _freezing_.

Almost immediately, Steve felt his body go haywire. It was shock and pain, and mental nothingness all rolled into one. At first, the cold was a chilly bite to the skin that woke him up and made his nose itch. Two meters onwards, it was torture wrapped with an icy hand around his throat. His eyes hurt. His nose throbbed. The cuffs around his wrist felt like they were frozen to his skin.

Panic set in, and just as Steve’s legs started to go weak and buckle at the knees, the soldier pushed him towards the gaping mouth of a truck. His climb up was anything but graceful, and while Steve knew that he’d smashed his shin on the step, he only registered it from the vibrations in his leg, not the flash of pain that should have come. He flopped ungracefully onto the bolted-down bench in the cargo bed and revelled in the touch of heating he could feel. The irony of feeling relief when being forced into an armoured vehicle filled with enemy troops wasn’t lost on Steve, but he was sure that any more time out in that weather would have been a death sentence.

Moments later, Barnes sunk down next to him, his jaw clenched and small flecks of snow on his eyelashes. It reminded Steve that Barnes was in even fewer layers than he was, and with his shirt sliced open, it was only the ruddy bandage keeping the exposed part of his arm from the elements.

Frowning, Steve turned, his mouth open to protest, only to have Rumlow beat him to it. Still, nothing was comforting about the way the soldier wrapped the grey woollen blanket around Barnes’ shoulders, nor caring about the way he tucked it in under Barnes’ chin.

“Don’t want him dying just yet,” Rumlow grinned. Steve saw red as Rumlow stayed long enough to pat at Barnes’ head before moving across the cab to sit near the door.

“Asshole,” Barnes muttered so softly that only Steve could hear it. The spy didn’t try to shrug the blanket off though, which was good. As much as Steve hated how it had gotten there, Barnes needed the warmth and Steve didn’t want to have to cause a scene about keeping it on him.

The door to the personnel carrier opened and closed a few more times, each time letting in gushes of air and snow that seemed to never melt. By the time they were on the move with the tyres clunking with the rattle of snow-chains, Steve was actually glad for the chance to bask in the warmth.

It was uncomfortable being in the confined space of the truck, but Steve took solace in the fact that Barnes was beside him. It wasn’t like he could do anything for the other man, but at least they could be close, and for every look sent Barnes’ way, Steve met it with a returned glare.

Rumlow occasionally smirked, clearly enjoying pushing Steve’s buttons, but the other soldiers were different. They glanced at the two of them with suspicion and fear, especially for Barnes.

Rocking back and forth, the truck took them god only knew where. Steve tried to judge the time, but his mind was far too distracted; too occupied with Barnes beside him and the way his head lolled back and forth with exhausted alertness. Steve knew he must be desperate to go back to sleep – or pass out – but now wasn’t the time. Sooner or later, they’d come to a stop and face yet another challenge, and Steve knew Barnes well enough to know that he wouldn’t want to keep stumbling into those moments foggy with sleep.

It was twenty minutes, maybe less, by the time the truck rumbled to a stop. The driver didn’t cut the engine, however, but the troops around them made to disembark anyway. Steve was thankful when the door opened into an underground parking lot. At least they wouldn’t have to deal with the Siberian elements for the time being.

Once again, he and Barnes found themselves ferried along, bound hands and worn bodies, and the lack of options keeping them both docile. There wasn’t anything they could really do. Trying for a gun was futile, and running was out of the picture. Where would they go? And even then, Barnes wasn’t in a position to run, and neither was he dressed for the cold.

All they could do was follow.

Wherever they were, it was clearly a military base of sorts. They were all the same, even if Steve couldn’t read the writing on the wall. One concrete hallway led to another, and one guard-controlled door buzzed into another locked room. High security for a place in the middle of nowhere, and the deeper they went, the more Steve knew that escape wasn’t a possibility.

They came to a final stop in a room with only one door, a gentle slope to the floor, and a drainage grate in the centre.

Steve felt his blood run cold as he took it all in. He stopped dead in his tracks, and it took a push from Rumlow to get him moving further into the room. The rest of the soldiers filed in after him, fanning out around the walls with weapons drawn.

Guns raised, and for a moment, Steve was sure it was the end. A cold, sterile room; bound hands; a firing squad. It seemed like the sort of thing that Rumlow would enjoy.

That fear only intensified as Barnes was driven in front of him, guided by his bound arms. The soldier kicked out at Barnes’ ankles, bringing the spy to his knees in the centre of the room. Barnes hit the floor with a grunt and a hiss marked with a sideways glare that made the soldier flinch and move away. It was of little comfort though, as it still left Barnes bound and kneeling on a floor with a fucking drain in the middle. There were only so many ways that this could go.

“Rumlow,” Steve implored. He took a step towards the other man, but the echo of bullets sliding into the chambers had him freezing once again.

Rumlow paid him no attention as he slid up to Barnes’ side.

“Forward,” Rumlow said flatly, his jaw jabbing at Barnes in an utterly confusing way.

When Barnes didn’t move, Rumlow took action. He shoved at Barnes’ back with his boot, pitching the spy forward and rocking his body roughly. Barnes’ cheek almost hit the grate, his hunches up with his knees trapped under him. Curled in on himself and vulnerable, Barnes flinched but otherwise didn’t move when Rumlow stepped closer. 

“Rumlow!” Steve snarled, but the name died on his lips as the traitor moved. There were a million and one things that Rumlow could do to Barnes in that position, and Steve hated each and every one of them. What Steve hadn’t expected, however, was for Rumlow to reach down and while he did yank at Barnes’ cuffs cruelly, he also slipped the key into the lock. A twist, a pull, and Barnes’ arms were pitching forward to support himself, cuff free for the first time in days.

Surprisingly, Rumlow stepped away.

Steve was sure he’d never felt so confused before in his life, and that confusion only grew as Rumlow moved towards him, his chin making the same flicking action. Hoping for the best, Steve raised his own arms and offered the cuffs. Rumlow grabbed the short chain and pulled, yanking Steve slightly off balance as he snarled in Steve’s face.

“One,” Rumlow said with a flick of his eyes towards the guards, and the lift of his right index finger. Steve could see the flash of the keys held beneath his curled fingers. “ _One_ false move and they shoot. Him first. Then you. No questions asked.”

Behind Steve, the door opened again, and more feet shuffled in as Rumlow finally removed the handcuffs from around Steve’s wrists. It was automatic for Steve to cross his hands to rub feeling back into the abused skin, just as it was curiosity that had him looking towards the newcomers. They dropped a few bags near Barnes – not next to him, but Steve got the feeling that they were too scared to get too close – as well as a bucket of steaming water.

For a moment, Steve felt his stomach lurch at the sight, his mind blanking out with the memory of Rollins burning Barnes. It had all played out in much the same way.

The men didn’t throw it though; they put it down and scurried out of the way, back behind the ring of armed soldiers and then out the door.

Steve blinked, looking between the men and Barnes. Darkly, he guessed maybe they should be mildly flattered by the whole concept. Half the squad was here, decked out in their Kevlar and clutching their Soviet rifles, the barrels trained on them. Steve was sure they were warier of Barnes than him, and Steve’s tired mind again floated back to that fateful file, full of blacked-out missions and classified reports.

“We don’t got all day, Rogers,” Rumlow hissed. “Hurry the fuck up.” Steve frowned, taking a hesitant step forward, idly placing himself between Barnes and Rumlow. “Clean up. Cover the wound. And put those clothes on so we don’t have to smell you anymore.”

Rumlow was such a charmer; Steve rolled his eyes as he moved into the centre of the room.

Barnes was sitting back on his legs, his arms resting in his lap. Steve could see the way that the spy cradled his left the most, keeping pressure off the shredded skin of his shoulder, all while trying to rub his own raw wrists. They’d been rougher with Barnes and his restraints, and given the way Steve’s own fingers felt too thick from the lack of proper circulation, he could only imagine how much pain Barnes had to be in.

“Hey,” Steve said softly. It was strange and awkward, and he’d never felt like he was on display so much in his life, but he lowered himself down to the ground to sit next to Barnes. The man tracked his movement with his eyes but made no attempt to move. Not until Steve reached out for him, at least. Steve helped Barnes shift into a more comfortable cross-legged position, and for a moment, Steve’s mind floated back to happier times. To bales of hay and Barnes, clean and waterlogged, and decked out in furs and smiling.

It was alarming how quickly everything could change and fall apart.

Catching Barnes’ eye, Steve waited for the tiny, almost invisible nod of permission before he moved closer and reached for Barnes’ tattered shirt. With the sleeve shredded and the rest of it caked in blood, it was as good as useless; Steve helped guide the right sleeve off Barnes’ arm and then pulled it over his head. He tossed it to the side with a grimace before turning his attention to the bandages. They were a mess. Blood-soaked and crusty, hastily slapped on and tied just around his bicep, it was miraculous that they’d stayed in place at all. Then again, Steve thought darkly, blood did make a twisted form of glue.

“This is going to hurt,” Steve warned.

“No fucking shit,” Barnes muttered back, catching Steve off guard. Barnes had been silent for what felt like forever, and his voice was scratchy and hoarse from disuse and the cold. But the snark was there, and it came with the ghost of a smile that had Steve’s heart hammering in his chest. It made Steve pause, the hesitation long enough that Barnes huffed a little and wiggled his eyebrows towards his arm. “Get it over with,” he coaxed.

Steve grimaced as he began to peel the loops free. It caught on dried sections and oozed in others, making the process slow and painful. Barnes hissed once but made no other sound. His eyes were pressed tightly closed though, and Steve could see the tense clench of his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmured. Barnes shook his head, and given that he hadn’t made a move to push Steve away, Steve assumed that it was meant to be reassuring. It had to hurt, but they both knew that it needed to be done. It was also an insane blessing that Rumlow had let Steve do this. The traitor was probably too scared that Barnes would kill any of the soldiers if they even tried.

It felt like it took forever for the bandage to finally come free, and when it did, Steve felt his stomach turn at the sight.

The water ran red, streaking down Barnes’ already grimy skin. They hadn’t done much to clean him up after the ordeal in the bunker and given the amount that he’d bled, there was rough, dried drips of blood down his entire side.

He could almost forget that they had an audience, let alone one poised to kill. Barnes let him touch and wipe, moving with Steve as he gently shifted his arm to get the blood that had stained the spy’s ribs.

By the time he was done, Steve was aware of two things. The first was that Barnes was watching him, those ice coloured eyes watching every little movement that Steve made, and no doubt seeing far more than Steve wanted him to. The other was that Barnes was stunning. It was a weird and horribly inconvenient time for Steve’s heart to decide that, but this was the most he’d seen of the man, and even dirty and travel-worn and bruised, he was breath-taking.

Steve was used to muscle and bulky strength, and Sam had often accused him of spending too much time lifting iron and not enough time thinking about settling down. Barnes’ body was different, though. Steve had seen it in the way Barnes dressed, felt it in the way Barnes moved and the power of his punches. He was lithe and deadly toned. The strength and power were still all there, the definition between muscles sharp and rigid, but there was more fluid grace to his form than Steve’s own.

“Come on, lover boy.”

Trust Rumlow to ruin the moment.

Blinking, Steve caught a flash of Barnes’ eyes and promptly looked away so he could rummage through the medical supplies. It helped to disguise his thoughts and hide him away from Barnes’ endlessly searching gaze. 

It was a challenging wound to bind, but they managed. The Soviets had been surprisingly generous with the number of supplies given; it made Steve overly suspicious. It was, however, something that he might be able to use to their advantage. They clearly wanted to keep Barnes alive, and while Barnes might disagree, it was a good thing. Steve could use that.

A quick glance up showed Rumlow watching them, and Steve took extra care not to let his touch linger on Barnes’ skin any longer than necessary. Once it was done and Steve had checked the end of the bandage twice to make sure it was secure, Barnes brushed him off by swatting at his hands.

“It’ll hold,” the Romanian said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Steve guided Barnes up to his feet, and the tension in the room was palpable at the shift. Clearly standing made Barnes a lot more of a threat than he’d been when sitting and covered in blood. It was like the soldiers saw Barnes as some demonic timebomb ready to go off. Even Barnes seemed to notice, and maybe it was only because they were standing so close, but Steve was sure he could see a slight smirk on Barnes’ lips.

“Get changed,” Rumlow instructed again, his chin jolting towards the duffle bag.

Leaving Barnes standing, Steve went and tipped the bag upside down, pulling all the clothes out. What he found in there surprised him. Sure, they didn’t all look like they’d be perfect sizes, but there were layers and thermals and warm gloves and socks. He’d half been expecting a threadbare blanket and another crusty beanie.

It was obvious that they were going back out into that cold, just as it was clear that Rumlow still valued them alive.

It was hard for Barnes. For all his bravado and strength, his left arm was close to useless, especially now that it was adequately strapped up over his chest. Steve did his best to help while trying not to be too intrusive. He would have loved to tell Rumlow to shove this whole situation up his ass, but the bite of the cold was still burning at his skin, and he knew better than to try and demand some privacy.

Even Barnes didn’t snark. He kept his eyes down and his back to Rumlow, but he was probably the most cooperative Steve had ever seen him as they shuffled through stripping down and dressing back up. It was one of the most awkward things that Steve had ever done. He’d be lying if he tried to deny that he’d often thought about undressing Barnes. Still, just like the moment when his tattoo had been revealed, Steve had always imagined it happening under much more agreeable circumstances. Special circumstances, with Barnes’ hands on his face and Steve’s fingers in Barnes’ hair as clothing was tugged and pulled and shimmied off with desperation.

Not this.

They worked together to get Barnes dressed, peeling off old pants with Steve supporting Barnes as he stepped in and out of the legs. Steve made sure to layer Barnes up, doubling his thermals and manoeuvring two Henleys and a sweater over his head. It was tough feeding his arm through, but they managed, and Steve inwardly reasoned that the more layers between the elements and Barnes’ wound, the better off they’d be.

The moment Steve turned his attention to himself, Rumlow clicked his fingers and, like clockwork, the soldiers moved on in. As expected, they took Barnes’ hands with a non-too-gentle yank, and then secured them back behind his back.

Steve opened his mouth to protest, but the men were already marching Barnes out of the room as Rumlow fixed him with a dead-eyed stare. “Get dressed,” the double agent commanded while half turning towards the door. Apparently, all the men had been here for Barnes, and Steve wasn’t high on the threat list.

Knowing that it was pointless asking questions, Steve did as instructed. At least he knew that Barnes hadn’t just been marched off to a firing squad. Rumlow was a lot of things, but he wasn’t wasteful, and he wasn’t stupid. There would have been no point in having Steve patch Barnes up and outfit him for the weather if it was all going to end with a bullet.

They’d use Barnes as leverage. Use him to keep Steve cooperative and in check.

As Steve stripped off his own pants and reached for a pair of thermals, he hated how well he knew it would work. He hated how Rumlow didn’t cuff his hands once done, and he hated how he simply followed the other man and allowed Rumlow to close him into a cell. There was no one else around, no one with guns trained on him; it would have been so easy to reach out. To take Rumlow by the shoulder and by the head and just twist. To kill.

But he’d never make it to Barnes, not alive, and not before someone took the Romanian agent down.

As Steve sat down on the edge of the metal cell bed, he was left hating just how tight Rumlow’s hold on him was.

*****

**Part XIX Preview**

Nothing in Steve’s life came close to the fear and terror of being alone and shut off from the world.

He tried to keep his mind busy by remembering song lyrics, or reciting poetry in his head; he’d always been a Shakespeare nerd. But then the frustration would come when he couldn’t remember a line, and the urge to get up and go to his bookcase itched under his skin. So then Steve counted things, not that there was all that much to count in the room. But he’d count one, two, three, four; the sides of the door; five, six, seven eight, the seams in the concrete. Twenty-seven rivets in the steel plating, but it should be twenty-eight. Steve wondered what happened to that last one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’ve had a week of frustration and idiotic government hell. How are you all surviving out there? Here in Australia, the state of Victoria has had an influx of infection, so we’re just cancelling them because that’s apparently how society operates these days. Up here in Sunny old Queensland, things are getting back to normal. Bars, nightclubs and concerts can start operating from tomorrow night… provided that there is a 4m squared space around groups of patrons. Oh, and you can’t dance or stand. In other words, we can all go and pay a cover charge/ticket price to sit in an isolated seat and tap out feet to loud music. 
> 
> Yay… 
> 
> Rest assured, the memes are out in force about Footloose towns. 
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> I teased an announcement in my last chapter, and I’m here to give you that. The exceptionally astute of you might have noticed a little change with the fic details. Look up! See that? Yes! 
> 
> This fic is now officially Part One of a series. The Lup Rosu (Red Wolf) Files. ;) 
> 
> What does this mean? Well, it means that there will be more set in this Cold War AU setting coming to fanfic pages near you! 
> 
> I will “spoiler” this by assuring you that even with the new series concept, this fic is standalone and will have a proper conclusion. You’re not going to have to wait for the second part to find out what happens or anything. It’s not a movie split into two parts. There will just be further fics set into this Cold War universe. 
> 
> That leads to part two of the announcement. Simply because I’m a nice person (ahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahaha aha hahahaha ha! Nah, I’m just bored) we’re going to go back to twice a week posting! Why? Because this baby is finished! Written, edited and done and dusted. And I feel like I should get it all out there before like... I don't know... Alien Invasion July happens or something ;) 
> 
> So, as always, and maybe even more so now than ever, leave your thoughts below. Did you enjoy the ‘patch up comfort’ scene? Are we feeling slightly better about the boys’ situation, or steadily growing more ominous? Got any predictions for what is to come? Think I’m batshit insane? Why not tell me about that too! 
> 
> Oh, also. I fucking LOVE the next chapter, and the above preview is so misleading as to what it's all about. ;)


	20. Part XIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. Not gonna lie. Barnes’ entrance in this is greatly inspired by that [Angelina Jolie Tomb Raider strut](https://thumbs.gfycat.com/PleasantWellinformedGalapagoshawk-max-1mb.gif)! I even had Nine Inch Nails ‘Deep’ playing in the background when writing it. 
> 
> Totally using this chapter to tick off **K5** – _Dog_ off of my [Bucky Barnes Bingo Card](http://minkawrites.com/bbb-card/)!
> 
> Also. I love this chapter. I said that last chapter, but now that we’re here, I really just wanted to say it again. I fucking love Barnes in this. 
> 
> A huge question is also answered. 
> 
> Finally, super quick little geography lesson here. I mentioned in the last chapter that they were in Yakutsk and that it was cold. For those who don’t know/haven’t heard of the place, it’s a city in Siberia that is “just down the road” so to speak from the coldest inhabited place in the world, Oymyakon. If you’re interested, this is a super short (less and a minute) [youtube video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qVHofQB1xCw) showing the sort of fog and cold that our boys are dealing with from here on out.

# Part XIX

The next time Steve saw Barnes was at least a day later. Maybe even two. The hours in the cell had blended and bled into each other, and Steve had spent so much time staring at his hands that he was sure he knew every line. Every damn crease and every well of his fingerprints that had been filled with blood at one time or another.

The silence was the worst thing. It opened Steve’s mind up for memories and thoughts, most of which he didn’t want. It felt like months ago now that he and Barnes had shared that moment in the gulag, and the spy had told him about how oppressive his confinement had been. Steve had sympathised with it back then, and he’d thought he’d understood. But now he knew that he hadn’t.

Nothing in Steve’s life came close to the fear and terror of being alone and shut off from the world.

He tried to keep his mind busy by remembering song lyrics, or reciting poetry in his head; he’d always been a Shakespeare nerd. But then the frustration would come when he couldn’t remember a line, and the urge to get up and go to his bookcase itched under his skin. So then Steve counted things, not that there was all that much to count in the room. But he’d count one, two, three, four; the sides of the door; five, six, seven eight, the seams in the concrete. Twenty-seven rivets in the steel plating, but it should be twenty-eight. Steve wondered what happened to that last one.

Sometime during the night, his SERE training kicked in, and Steve started working his way through his 201 file details, air cav ID specs, drill protocols and commo wire codes. He repeated those to himself as his eyes flicked over the mismatched pairs of bolts and checked the floor for the wayward twenty-eighth.

How the hell Barnes had survived months – almost a year – of this and managed to walk away with his mind and sanity intact was unfathomable to Steve. Barnes was clearly stronger than Steve gave him credit for. Steve was already close to turning into a raving lunatic, and it hadn’t even been a week.

When the door finally opened, Steve had been in the middle of trying to remember the _I Dream of Jeannie_ theme tune, and the relief he felt to see Rumlow standing there was mildly disturbing.

“Time to go, Rogers,” Rumlow said, his voice the first real thing that Steve had heard in days. Steve hated it. Still hated it. The guttural tones of a tough-talking American grated on Steve’s nerves, and he almost wished that Rumlow would just close the door and leave him alone with his outdated television memories.

Just like when Rumlow had marched him into the cell, the corridor was devoid of armed men, and Steve’s hands were kept free and unrestrained. Steve followed Rumlow like a dog with his tail between his legs, forever pitiful at the command the traitor had over him.

They stopped near heavy machine operated doors, and Steve was handed a giant fur-lined overcoat. So, it was outdoors, he thought as he shrugged it on. He pulled the hood up after watching Rumlow do the same, and proper upbringing almost had him thanking the man when he was handed two pairs of gloves. The thin wool ones went on first, obviously, and then the fur and synthetic, waterproof ones followed.

Without a word, Rumlow hit the release button and the doors opened with the rattle of a generator and the stench of burning fuel.

The courtyard was a chaotic melting pot of noise and commotion, especially after the eerie silence of his cell, and the snow-glare stung Steve’s eyes as he stumbled out into the mess. He shielded his eyes from both the brightness and the foggy breeze. It was astounding how a place so full of mist and snow could still be so damn bright.

That cold was back. Biting and numbing and burning all at the same time. Steve could feel it against his face and wiggling in between the weaves and seams of his clothes. Idly, he wondered just how many layers you needed to wear to actually feel warm in a place as destitute as this.

Off to the side, he saw Rumlow fiddle with the neckline of his jacket, pulling a puff of inbuilt scarf out to pad around his neck. Steve hated taking cues from the other man, but he did the same.

Rumlow wordlessly led the way. Steve could refuse to follow, or try to make a scene, but it would be a pointless, futile act that would only end badly.

The fog was so heavy that Steve could barely see where they were going. He could hear voices and the sound of vehicles all around them, the bang of boxes against the back of a truck and he could smell the exhaust of running engines. The sound of barking had Steve’s blood running cold. It was an irrational fear, but with his senses on such high alert, the idea of Rumlow feeding them to a pack of wolves wasn’t the craziest thing that Steve’s mind had concocted. Off in the distance, he could see a slight gleam here and there as the sun broke through the fog and glinted off high, barbed wire- topped fences around the compound.

Rumlow came to a stop near a cluster of other men, all dressed in heavy jackets and hoods. They had a map spread out across a Soviet air force crate, and Steve found himself huddled around it like he somehow belonged with these traitors and betrayers.

“The fog is keeping us back,” Rumlow said as if it explained every question that Steve hadn’t asked.

Maybe Steve’s confusion showed because Rollins scoffed and crossed his jacket-thick arms over his chest and Rumlow huffed.

“No one will fly in weather like this. Visibility is clearly an issue.”

“No shit,” Rollins grumbled. Steve got the feeling that Rollins was pissed over something, and he could only hope that it had nothing to do with Barnes. Or, better yet, that it did, and he’d been told to stand the hell down and leave Barnes alone.

“And the locals,” Rumlow carried on, drowning out the last of Rollins’ less than helpful contribution, “don’t think it's going to clear up anytime soon. So we’re going by land.”

If this had been a democracy and Steve hadn’t been a prisoner, then he would have questioned why. Why not wait? Why not bide their time until it was safe to fly? Surely that would be easier; even travelling over land in this weather seemed impossible. Steve was hard-pressed to see the opening of the bunker they’d come out of and that was just on the other side of the courtyard.

Logically, waiting was the smart thing to do. Steve guessed that it wasn’t an option though, not with him and Barnes in tow. Controlling Barnes was hard enough as it was, and Steve automatically didn’t want to think about spending more time in this desolate place with Rumlow and Rollins growing bored and antsy. He also didn’t want to think about more time in that cell.

So, land it was.

“Where is the staff located?” Rumlow asked, and it took him almost repeating himself for Steve to realise that he’d been talking to him.

Steve moved forward, his puffed-out jacket swishing synthetically as he did so, and peered over the map. They’d helpfully circled a place that he assumed was Lena Pillars, and he was able to pick out Yakutsk from there. But that was it, and as Steve looked up, part of him knew that he’d been dreading this for days.

“I don’t know,” Steve said, his eyes skimming from Rumlow then back to the map. 

Clearly, it wasn’t a good answer. Someone off to Steve’s right muttered something in Russian that sounded a hell of a lot like the things Barnes had growled and shouted during their time in the swamp, and Rollins obviously wasn’t happy.

“What do you mean you don’t fucking know?” he demanded. For once Rumlow didn’t do anything to silence him, so Steve figured that the leader was pissed as well. Really though, it was their own fault for not asking more pointed questions about the location earlier on.

“This sort of stuff doesn’t come with an X-marks the spot sign,” Steve sighed. “And I haven’t had much time to look at a map since working it out and running into you.”

There was so much more that he wanted to say, so much more that he wanted to curse them out for. But he had to remember not to get too cocky. He might have been unchained and walking around freely, but they still called the shots here. They still had Barnes.

Steve sighed and nibbled on his weather-beaten bottom lip.

“We ask the locals as we go,” Steve reasoned. He didn’t know much about this area, but what little he did know, he called on now. “The Sakha were nomadic tribal people. They remember things like this. They pass the stories down from generation to generation. It’s what keeps cultures alive.” That was how myth and legends were still breathed into the modern world. Stories of old and superstitions and tales made to scare the youth; these things carried on and added to believes that were otherwise outdated.

The same would apply here in the middle of rural Siberia. Of course, the general townspeople of Yakutsk would be of little help. Most of them were Western imports, moving from Moscow and St. Petersburg at the promise of low taxes and good pay for working in the severe Siberian conditions. But once they were out of here, out on the road where little villages dotted the frozen forests, then that was where information could be found.

“It’s how we would have done it.” There was no point in explaining who he meant by _we_.

That seemed to seal the deal, at least with Rumlow. Rollins still didn’t look all that impressed, but that wasn’t anything surprising.

Steve was starting to be able to read and understand the dynamic between the two traitors. Rumlow was the leader, and for all Steve hated him and internally mocked his intelligence, there was a cunningness in Rumlow that Rollins lacked. Rollins was the brawn to Rumlow’s evil plans; the knife to Rumlow’s threats.

It wasn’t much, and it sure didn’t provide any easy openings, but Steve filed the knowledge away. Cut the head off the snake, and the body dies; remove the pawn and the king becomes vulnerable. If there was a way to exploit their connection, then Steve would.

“Karpov, get them to load up,” Rumlow finally concluded. A man behind him said something in Russian and the rest scattered as they jumped to comply. There was something about the Soviet’s voice that stuck Steve as oddly familiar. A voice from the past, and Steve’s mind highlighted it with a deadly memory of gunshots in the dark.

The map was folded up and tucked into a pocket in Rumlow’s coat, and with a jerk of the chin, Steve found himself following Rumlow back across the chaotic loading zone.

It was strange how lost Steve felt. The commotion around him should have been nothing out of the ordinary, especially not for a once professional military man like himself. He’d spent so much time on or around bases, marvelling at the well-oiled machine that loading and unpacking could be.

But it was only Rumlow and Rollins who generally spoke English, and Steve’s lack of Russian left him at a clear disadvantage. Everything seemed different and alien when it was happening in a different language, and while Steve was sure the voices around him were saying things he would know, it still made him feel deeply detached.

The cold and visibility issues were also wearing on him already. He was used to the sweltering heat and a sun that seemed intent to melt everything that it touched. Here it was all just grey and hazy; still air, with fog that hung like smoke and burned his throat every time he inhaled.

The fact that all the vehicles in the yard were pumping plumes of exhaust out into the air didn’t help either.

Steve was led to one such vehicle; a ZIL-131 standard Soviet people carrier. What surprised him was that Rumlow just left him there. No word, no explanation; just a jab of the chin to indicate that this was where Steve should be, and that he should get in the back with the rest of the troops. As far as prisoner control went, it was pretty lax.

It didn’t take long for the sound of military synched steps to reach him though, and Steve stopped wondering about the recent events long enough to turn. What he saw pushed all thought out of his mind.

Barnes was a sight for sore eyes. He came out of the freezing mist like a shadow of retribution and hatred. Surrounded by his usual flock – soldiers with guns up and cautious looks in their eyes – there was a cocky saunter to his step and a prideful lift to his head that Steve hadn’t seen in far too long. While the solitary confinement had worn on Steve, Barnes looked like he’d maybe managed to get some sleep, and that he’d found some respite wherever they’d kept him.

His shoulders were square again, and while Steve could see that Barnes clearly favoured the injured left, he no longer curled in on himself and away from the men around him. He had his deadly feline strut back, and if Steve didn’t know better, he would have assumed that the soldiers around him were part of Barnes’ entourage, not his captors and possible execution squad. 

Somehow Barnes was all in his trademark black. The dark cloth carved him out of the hazy whiteness of the fog and mist and made him an easy target to spot. That was probably the logic behind his outerwear, but it sure was nice to see him back in his usual colour. He even had a black scarf hiked up around his neck, covering his mouth and nose from the cold, and with his hair down and wild under a fur-lined hood, he looked like a fabled warrior from an Asian action movie, come from the shadows to seek vengeance.

Not that Steve was checking him out, especially not at a time like this.

That would be all sorts of wrong.

They led Barnes right to Steve, uniform marching and perfectly timed halts. Barnes seemed to fit right in with their steps, and Steve had the distinct feeling that Barnes was smirking under that muffler. Steve didn’t care. He was just paranoidly grateful; he would have hated it if they’d been forced to travel separately, but Steve was also smart enough to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Barnes seemed to be in chipper spirits, which was also odd. Steve put it down to the fact that Barnes would just be pleased to be out of the dank cells, and, as Steve readily noticed, they’d let up on some of Barnes’ restraints.

He must have seen Steve’s gaze land on his hands. “Threat level downgraded,” Barnes said with a shake of his hands and a slight lift of his eyebrow. It was good to see that dark humour back, even if Steve was selfish for missing it. “Guess they figure I can’t pick locks with fifty fucking layers of material over my fingers.” The way he said it, half as a laugh and half as a snarl, proved that they were, in fact, right, and Barnes was clearly salty about it.

All Steve could do was smile while hauling himself up into the back of the personnel carrier. He turned around and offered a hand down to Barnes. The spy didn’t look pleased – when did he ever? – but he let Steve grab his right forearm as one of the other men moved in behind him.

“Well,” Barnes said as he was half lifted, half pushed up into the truck. He may have had use of his hands again, but his left shoulder and arm were in on condition to go taking any of his weight. “At least I can scratch my nose again. And flip people off,” he added, doing just that to the soldiers that had turned and walked away.

“Bright side, right,” Steve laughed.

Sitting down was strange, or at least the process of it was. Usually, they were manhandled into place, pushed and prodded and pulled and secured down like wild animals. Not this time, though. This time they were left to their own devices in the back of the personnel carrier, and while soldiers starting filing in behind and around them, it was up to Steve and Barnes to take their seats. It was a strange concept – this amount of freedom – but it wasn’t like they had anywhere to go anyway. What were they going to do? Run out into a locked courtyard, or try and jump out of a moving jeep in the middle of frozen nowhere? Both Steve and Barnes knew there was nowhere to go, just as Rumlow knew the same thing.

The lax in security was just another way of messing with their minds. Maybe Rumlow was hoping that they’d be more cooperative and useful like this.

Steve shuffled towards the front of the cab and worked it so Barnes was in the corner. If Barnes noticed the intention behind the action, he didn’t say anything; Steve gathered that was for the best.

The chains around Barnes’ wrists rattled as he reached to push his hood back and pull his muffler down. That was the worst thing about the cold; the constant need to layer on and off. At least with the heat, it was just levels of hot and hotter. Then again, seeing Barnes’ face without blood and pain was a pleasant respite, even if he was bruised and looking hauntingly pale.

With the engine already running, Steve had assumed that they’d be right on their way. Instead, they found themselves sitting in the troop carrier for what he believed was at least half an hour, if not longer.

“It’s the cold,” Barnes said softly. It earned him a glare from the men with the guns, but Barnes simply lifted an eyebrow and sank lower in his chair, proving that he was no threat. “They have to keep the engines going otherwise they might not start again. People often leave their cars constantly running – all day and all night – to make sure that they’re useable when needed.”

Steve could hear voices outside the truck, rattling away with words that he didn’t understand. Barnes shifted beside him and titled his head like a bird as he listened.

“The Lena River,” Barnes translated. Steve had to stop himself from blinking too hard. He was sure that he’d never heard Barnes talk so much in the entire time they’d known each other. Not that Steve was going to protest, though, as he both welcomed the chipper side of his companion and found the translations endlessly useful. Besides, he was sure that Barens was doing a lot of it just to piss the guards off, and Steve wasn’t about to block Barnes’ fun. 

“It freezes over completely in winter,” Barnes continued. The guard watched him with careful eyes but seemed to deem that soft talking wasn’t a shootable offence. “The locals turn it into a highway.”

“We’re going to be driving on the river?” Steve was sure that wasn’t all that new or astonishing to people who lived in sub-arctic cold, but for Steve, that was just insane. It never got that cold in DC, or in any of America, he guessed, and even then, everyone knew to stay off the ice.

It did remind him of something he’d read about this area, though. That the whole city was built on permafrost and that it was a colossal engineering accomplishment. He couldn’t remember the specifies, but it had something to do with the earth underneath the soil always being frozen, even in summer, so while crops could be planted in the topsoils during the warmer months, it was always still freezing just below the surface. Construction wise, they’d had to drill support beams deep into the earth to keep the cement foundations from melting the frost, making the buildings structurally unstable.

Steve guessed that if the ground was already perpetually frozen, then driving on a river in winter wasn’t that crazy an idea.

“It’s fine for cars and jeeps right now, but start getting bigger and heavier vehicles, and the risk gets higher.” Barnes pressed himself back against the wall as the voices moved away. Whoever was talking was shooting off rapid-fire, the tone sounded like a complaint even to Steve.

“The drivers are worried,” Barnes continued. Eventually, the voices died down completely, leaving them in that strange non-silence where the rumbling engine was all that could be heard.

“Winter came early,” Barnes said with a small shrug. “They’re worried the ice is too new and that it won’t hold.” Steve glanced at him, worry already filling him with dread, but Barnes seemed utterly nonplussed. The spy shrugged a little and pulled at the cloth around his neck some more. “A guess. They’ll drive us as far as the ice holds up, then we’ll switch to the dogs.”

The soldier across from them had clearly had enough. Either he understood what Barnes was saying, or he was just annoyed at the talking, but he barked something out in Russian that had Barnes rolling his eyes and making a dramatic point of closing his mouth. Steve guessed he’d been told to shut up, what with the way the man shook his rifle threateningly between each word.

Steve guessed that they were meant to sit and wait in silence; how very Soviet.

*****

Steve could remember thinking that Bushuyevo was a run down, rural town, untouched by the oppression of the communist regime. That one road, destitute place had left a haunting impression on him that outshone the kind family that had taken him and Barnes in for the night. Even the food in Steve’s belly hadn’t been able to chase away the shock of such a remote, underdeveloped place.

It was, as Steve was about to find out, the picture of civilisation compared to Khotochchu.

While Steve hadn’t obviously seen any part of the journey there, he’d made a rough attempt at keeping track of time. They hadn’t stopped at all since setting out, and while Steve knew that it was only a day’s drive to the pillars, that was under favourable conditions and over reliable roads. The ice had the tyres spinning and slipping in a way that threatened to have them all feeling seasick, and clearly, visibility was a significant concern; Steve would guess that they hadn’t gone more than twenty kilometres an hour even once.

It was a snail’s crawl, and clearly, it was wearing on everyone’s nerves. Steve did his best to keep track of the ticks and signs of irritation in the men piled into the van with them. If there was a way to exploit that, then he would.

When they’d finally rattled to a stop, and the shouted words were enough to make Barnes sit up straighter and listen, Steve had assumed that they were here. _There_. At the end of their journey. That they’d be pulled out of the personnel carrier and greeted with some intricate webbing of rock and cave.

Yet, after squinting against the strangely bright haze of the world and climbing down from the truck, Steve was sure he’d never felt so disorientated and confused in his entire life. He couldn’t see much, but he could see a road, and a house and maybe what could have been a well-fortified shop. With the fog sitting so low and thick, Steve couldn’t even tell where the sun was. They were way up north – subarctic – and while Steve wasn’t entirely certain, he’d guess that this was another part of the world prone to midnight suns and days of long, stretching darkness in the winter. He assumed that there was daylight out there somewhere, that it was what kept the mist a dull grey, but it was beyond Steve’s navigational skills to try and use it to gauge the time of day.

“Come on,” Rumlow’s voice seemed to echo through the eerie air, as did the sound of their footfalls.

It was terrifying not knowing what was going on, or where they were being marched off to. Steve always had fears of brick walls and firing squads, even though he rationally knew that wasn’t about to happen. Rationality was often lost in moments like these.

After a few steps, it became apparent that not everyone was setting off. Steve clocked in Rumlow and the man, Karpov, who’d been part of the map discussion. Steve guessed he was their official translator and the leader of the local recruits. Then there was himself, Barnes, Rollins and two armed soldiers.

Barnes, Steve assumed, had been brought out of the jeep to make sure Steve didn’t do anything stupid.

Rollins was too much a like a hound at Barnes’ side, hovering close and holding onto his left elbow. If it wasn’t for the devious look in his eyes or the cuffs around Barnes’ wrists, it could have seemed like Rollins was there to help. To make sure that Barnes didn’t slip. As it was, Rollins’ presence only made things more difficult. The constant slip and slide of Barnes’ feet were met with uncaring yanks to his wounded arm to keep him upright.

The sight turned Steve’s stomach as his own boots squeaked across the snow. He’d never heard anything like it before. Snow to him was that thing that fell in fairy tales; soft and fresh and floating gently on the wind. It was the sort of thing that was beautiful and fleeting, disappearing the moment it touched skin or turning to cotton-soft fluff on the ground. He’d never experienced this ice-crunch as he walked. The teeth-gritting sound of snow that was so hard it fought against the press of his weight and never seemed to melt.

Clearly, an armed military convoy drew attention, though what the locals were doing being willingly out in the snow and ice was baffling to him. Still, they trickled out from between dead trees and low houses blanketed in white, hoods up and questions in their eyes.

Rumlow pulled the group to a stop, meeting with a gathering of locals in the middle of what Steve picked as the main road. Traffic clearly wasn’t going to be an issue.

The American traitor turned to Karpov and gave a small, prompting wave. The man started talking, his Russian clearly fluent and accented in a way that Steve hadn’t really heard before.

Steve had determined that Rumlow spoke very little Russian while back in the Yakutsk compound. Steve had heard him say some – the same with Rollins – but mostly it seemed to be commands, simple instructions and basic questions. That was where the translator came in. Steve didn’t remember his face from the forest fight, but then a number of the man Steve distinctly remembered had disappeared. They’d been replaced with new faces, more weather-worn and hardy against the cold, so Steve had surmised that the majority of Rumlow’s squad were locally borrowed.

In a way, that was a good thing. It meant that there was extraordinarily little in the way of underlying loyalty. It was Rumlow, Rollins and, as far as Steve could tell, about four others that made up the majority of the squadron. All the others were Soviet hands for hire, no doubt under order to assist. That didn’t make them any less deadly, but Steve was willing to bet that they weren’t exactly privy to what was really at stake here. If things started to get anything like Kashkulakskaya cave, then hopefully the men would crack and run at the otherworldly, supernatural pressure.

Steve wasn’t sure how, but Barnes managed to get himself over next to him. Rollins was still right on Barnes’ heels, but clearly, the security was lax. Then again, there was honestly nowhere to run. Not in this weather. They’d get nowhere, and Steve just knew that the Soviet troops wouldn’t blink an eye before slaughtering the villagers if they offered Barnes and himself assistance. Hell, Rollins would probably kill them all just to flush Steve and Barnes out in the first place.

The villager who replied shuffled forward with the sound of someone old, his feet dragging through the snow in a slow, almost painful way. Like the others, he wore a mishmash of modern cold-weather clothes and furs, but there was something about him that drew Steve’s attention. The way the villagers supported him; looked to him. Clearly, he was someone of importance, and there was a wisdom in his wrinkled, sunken eyes.

“He is their zduhać,” Barnes said softly. “He’s like… a Sharman, for lack of better explanations. A dragon-man who protects the village from the gods and foul weather and stupid shit like that.”

The villager was talking away, his breath puffing around him a cloud that he didn’t seem to notice. Steve, on the other hand, was sure he’d never been so damn cold in his life. How anyone could stand to live in a place like this, let alone to be happy to stop and chat to strangers in the snow-covered street, was beside him.

“He’s saying that Rod,” Barnes frowned, his head tilting to the side as he mulled the words over. It was like he didn’t understand, which, Steve reasoned, was highly likely. The Soviet Union was a vast, sprawling country, comprised of so many different cultures and people. They brought their languages with them, and out here on the opposite side of the country to Moscow, the dialects were harsh and strange. Even Steve could hear the difference between Barnes’ Russian, and the Russian the soldiers around them spoke and that of the villagers. These people were tribal and nomadic, travelling Asian lands more than European, and their language reflected that. They’d been pulled in under the umbrella of the Soviet Union and were no doubt expected to speak basic Russian, but they’d twisted and changed it to suit them. 

“I think Rod is a god. _The_ God.” Barnes clarified. The man kept talking, and Barnes looked more and more sceptic as the story progressed. “He’s saying that when this Rod was… flying or some shit. Giving out resources to the people of the world.” Barnes looked like he was ready to roll his eyes. The Romanian was a lot of things, but religious clearly wasn’t one of them, and even after all they’d experienced in Kashkulakskaya cave, Steve still had the feeling that Barnes thought this was all hogwash.

“Basically, some rubbish about his hands getting cold and thus dropping a little bit of everything here. Natural resources and stuff.”

Karpov shot Barnes a dirty look and Steve couldn’t help but wonder why. Was it because Barnes had glossed over everything, or was it just the fact that he had understood? Up until now, Barnes hadn’t translated anything in front of that particular man, and even Rumlow seemed to be paying more attention to Barnes’ cliff notes version then he was the translator who kept talking back and forth in strange Russian, seeking clarification.

“That’s a different story,” Steve just couldn’t help himself. The words were out of his mouth before he really thought them through.

Academic curiosity was winning over. As much as Steve didn’t want to lead Rumlow and his ragtag bunch of cutthroats and Soviet spies to Chernobog’s staff, Steve also couldn’t risk remaining silent and unhelpful. Rumlow had him in a precarious situation; nowhere to run and with Barnes’ life on the line if the endeavour proved futile.

Maybe Barnes hadn’t quite clued onto how determined Steve was to keep him alive, because the spy sent him a razor quick glare that usually came accompanied by the words, _shut up!_

“I’m just saying that god,” Steve went on, ignoring the man at his side. “This _Rod_ – sprinkling the area with resources doesn’t match up with divine power struggles.”

Barnes said something to the villager then, and Steve wasn’t sure what was more fascinating. The look of shock the villager shot Barnes, the flippant tones of Barnes’ voice, or the fact that, unprompted, the villager said a single word.

“Chernobog?” That was a Russian word Steve understood. “Chernobog. _Zla Kob._ _Zla Kob._ ” The man was shaking his head so much that his hood almost fell off.

“What’s going on?” Steve pressed, his hand instinctively curving around Barnes’ forearm.

“I asked him if any god went and dropped a staff here a few thousand years ago,” Barnes said with a shrug. Flippant. The translator didn’t look impressed; maybe there was some sort of social expectation of building up to the question at hand that Barnes had just ignored. Steve really wouldn’t put it past his companion to do just that.

“Yes. да. да. Chernobog,” Steve said excitedly. The zduhać looked him up and down, a snow speckled eyebrow moving up along the weathered lines of his forehead.

Squeezing Barnes’ arm, Steve tried not to get his hopes up too high as he pressed on. “Ask him about sickness, or any tribal skirmishes in their spoken history.” The translator frowned a little, the expression noticeable only from the deep crevice that formed above his winter goggles. “Anything cataclysmic.”

Barnes made that half sigh, half growl sort of sound that he was so fond of before he started up again. This time Karpov interrupted him, his arm waving at Barnes like one would swat an annoying fly. Another string of Russian followed, and while it was Karpov speaking, Steve couldn’t help but notice that the villagers were all looking at Barnes. Maybe it was the handcuffs. Or the way Rollins loomed over him like an evil spirit. Their ragtag group of killers and prisoners had to seem pretty odd emerging from the snow and asking questions like these.

Barnes said something that sounded sassy even though Steve couldn’t understand. It was all in the way that the spy tilted his head and the way he huffed as he spoke; as if forming words was physically painful. The sort of pain that came with talking to stupid people and having to explain things three times over.

It was a tone Steve knew all too well.

It was hard not to smirk as Barnes and the translator started rapid firing between the two of them. Back and forth and, at one point, with a rattle of Barnes’ chained arms that had Rollins grabbing at his elbow pre-emptively.

Eventually, it was Barnes who turned to the villager and started talking again. Steve had enough of an ear for Barnes’ Russian to know that the operative was slowing his words down and speaking carefully. Given Barnes’ nonchalance about the creation myth, it was clearly so he’d be understood and had nothing at all to do with being religiously sensitive. Barnes was many things, but socially diplomatic didn’t fall into his repertoire.

The villager talked back, a woman said something that Barnes clearly asked to be repeated. Karpov huffed and started talking over the top of everyone. All in all, it was a chaotic mess of jumbled nonsense in Steve’s head. Thankfully Rumlow called an end to the chaos with a lifted hand, and a single word barked out in accented Russian that seemed to shut everyone up. Everyone but Barnes, though that, Steve assumed, should have been expected.

“He says there are cave pictures,” Karpov finally said, stealing Steve’s attention. “Not much distance from here.”

Rumlow turned to Steve, his gaze heavy with implied expectation. It had only been this morning when Steve had said that talking to the locals should bring up possibilities, and here they were. Honestly, Steve didn’t know if he should be excited or not. On the one hand, this was just another step towards what could be the most significant historical discovery of all time. On the other, it was just another stone falling into place to give Rumlow, and thus the Soviet Union, the exact thing that could destroy the world.

“Ask him where,” Steve said simply. “And what their legends say about it.”

Karpov started up another back and forth exchange. While it was Karpov that spoke, the zduhać seemed to only have eyes for Barnes. It was unnerving. The man stared, the wrinkles of his wizened eyes catching flecks of snow as it fell around them. There was a blank confusion to the man’s gaze; as if he was seeing something that he didn’t believe but lacked the ability to really comprehend what he was seeing.

Steve guessed it was a lot like the woman back in the town near the swamp. They’d probably never seen city folk before, which explained why they’d stared. It also helped that Barnes was clearly easy on the eyes, but Steve didn’t imagine that this Sharman was interested in that aspect. The situation at hand could have been the thing that pulled his attention as well. It probably wasn’t every day that they saw a Soviet Army platoon rock up with distinct prisoners, let alone led by Americans. Barnes was the only one restrained, which had drawn a lot of eyes when he’d shaken his hands.

“He says not far. Where river meets tree.” It was said in a way that left no room for questions. Steve was going to have to live with the idea that the Soviets would be able to find the location easily enough. Maybe there had been more distinguishing landmarks that Karpov hadn’t bothered to translate.

It was enough for Rumlow. The soldier signalled that they were done and Karpov made a show of bowing a little and offering some money to the villagers. Steve wondered what they’d do with it. He had the feeling that they were more self-sufficient out here and relied little on the currency of city-folk. They’d deal in trade and provide for themselves through winter rations harvested during the thaw. But, he reasoned, at least it was something, and Steve found himself bowing his head in thanks as he turned to leave.

Their exit wasn’t as simple as that, though. Not when the zduhać grabbed at Barnes' arm, pulling him to a stop; Steve felt his blood run cold. It was easy to brush the reaction off with the simple knowledge that Barnes didn’t like to be touched, but the way the villager’s eyes had followed Barnes haunted Steve in ways he’d couldn’t possibly understand.

“вы рано, Вялес,” the Sharman hissed. There was questioning in his tone, present before Rollins started moving in on him, gun up threateningly. “лед слишком тонкий”

Whatever the hell he was saying had the two of them frozen in their tracks. Barnes didn’t even flinch as Rollins yanked him away and the villager showed no immediate fear at the gun barrel pressed into his chest. Rollins used it to push him back a few paces, but even then, the zduhać just kept looking at Barnes and shaking his head.

“ты должен стать колядой!” There was a frantic edge to his words; a deep need to be understood and listened to. It had a perverse effect on Steve. His stomach lurched, his palms going sweaty in his gloves, and more than anything, he just wanted to reach for Barnes. To touch him. To make sure he was _real_ and _there_.

Rollins was busy pushing the old man back, and the villagers were closing in around the zduhać protectively. Barnes had been jostled into the custody of the pair of armed men who’d come with them, which took him completely out of Steve’s reach.

With Rollins handling the situation, Rumlow had led the way back to the truck. As they shuffled across the hard snow to the vehicles, Steve could feel the tension in the air. Barnes was silent at his side; Rollins was twitchy and trigger happy next to him. And Karpov, the translator, kept glancing over his shoulder, looking at Barnes with mounting suspicion. That, in turn, made Steve wary. Something had happened back there that only Karpov and Barnes understood, and neither seemed ready to offer an explanation.

It was only when the armed men started loading back into the personnel carrier, with the intention that Barnes and Steve be next, that Barnes finally spoke.

“He said we shouldn’t drive further,” Barnes said simply. He’d dug his heels in, though, standing by the door with his cuffed hands pushing against the chest-high step.

Rumlow paused, looking at the spy before turning to his official translator.

“Silly local superstitions,” Karpov brushed the words off.

“These people live here,” Barnes countered. “They know these lands.”

“He use words not acknowledgeable. _Zla Kob._ Foolish meaning. Not Russian,” the translator brushed Rumlow’s look off with his explanation.

“ _Evil fortune_ ,” Barnes sassed back, “it’s fucking old Slavic, you dumb Commie cunt.”

Steve had heard and seen and a lot in his time, and he’d been privy to some of Barnes’ more vocal explosions throughout their travels. Most of the time, they were even aimed at him. But never had he heard Barnes curse so naturally and so explicitly, especially not in English.

He just couldn’t help it; Steve smirked.

“He’s trying to tell us that chasing the gods like this will bring evil fortune.” Barnes was being pretty rational, all things considered. Steve didn’t know why, but at that moment it occurred to Steve that Barnes hadn’t been able to suck back one of his trademark cigarettes for days now. No wonder the Romanian spy was getting testy. Barnes was probably going through withdrawals and honestly, cuffed or not, Steve wouldn’t put it past Barnes to find a way to maim or kill due to the frustration.

“Lunatic. Raving,” Karpov countered. “Crazy man; call you one of gods.” The translator spat at Barnes’ feet, his eyes skimming up to fix a strangely hateful glare on the Romanian. “Mind is gone. Bullet in head mess you up.” Karpov poked at his own head, right over the spot where Barnes had a scar, and finally, the familiarity of the Soviet’s voice clicked for Steve.

Karpov was the man who’d shot Barnes back in Bucharest. Back in that alleyway after Barnes had lost so much. The man that Steve himself had then floored in retribution.

Lost in his own thoughts as he was, Steve had to blink to keep up with the conversation. Never had a few clipped words garnered so much attention. Barnes had that look about him that suggested he was pressing his lips together under his muffler, while Rumlow and Rollins looked about as confused as Steve felt. Only Karpov seemed to be nonplussed with his words, his face screwed up disbelievingly as he wiped at his lips.

“What?” Rumlow was the one who finally broke. Steve could see the lift of his eyebrow and the smirk starting on his face. “Barnes. A god?” And then he laughed outright.

“Foolish man speak of foolish things,” Karpov agreed. “Too much khöörög.”

Steve frowned. He wasn’t about to subscribe to the idea that Barnes was the physical vessel for some Slavic god, but his education and reading wouldn’t let him dismiss the idea so quickly either. If there was one thing that Steve understood, it was the importance of legends and myths, and the idea of a modern personification keeping them alive.

Barnes had clearly triggered something within the Sharman and Steve wished more than anything, that Rumlow and Rollins and the whole Soviet fucking Union didn’t exist right now. Steve would have loved to sit – preferably somewhere warm – with the zduhać and question him more. Ask about their way of life, and why he’d had some adverse reaction to the mention of Chernobog and just what the hell he saw in Barnes.

Maybe it was something simple and wrapped up in the idea that Barnes was clearly a prisoner. Lore was rife with the idea of captive gods and powers being locked away. That would make sense, at least, but Steve felt it went deeper than that. There had been something haunting in that man’s gaze, and the way he hadn’t even flinched as Rollins’ gun had pushed him back. It had been important for his message to Barnes to be heard, and Steve really damn wished that he understood the language himself. Between Barnes and Karpov, the truth was bound to be lost in unenthusiastic translation. 

“I should have fucking shot you when I had the chance,” Barnes hissed. It was one of the few times that Steve had seen Barnes lose his cool. Sure, he was prone to rude outbursts and had a habit of pushing buttons for his own merits, but the way Barnes stepped in and hissed at Karpov went past spur of the moment anger. It spoke of personal history; another layer to Barnes’ life that Steve wasn’t privy to, and, whatever the reason, it was why Barnes had looked so stunned back in that Bucharest alley when Karpov had shouted. Clearly whatever had transpired between them had left Barnes thinking that Karpov was dead.

“I aim better next time,” Karpov snarled back.

“We’re moving out,” Rumlow finally said, his jaw motioning for the men to get Barnes up into the ZIL-131. Barnes allowed himself to be pushed and pulled up with a sigh. Steve obediently followed, shooing Barnes back into the corner spot as the door was closed on them.

“One of the gods?” Steve questioned with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. He hadn’t missed what Karpov had said, nor had he missed the way Barnes had reacted to the zduhać’s unhinged rant.

“Superstitious bullshit,” Barnes replied.

“Sure you’re not hiding some god-like powers from me?” Steve ribbed. “Because if you are, it would be great if you could get us out of this.”

“Shut up, Rogers,” Barnes snapped.

Steve wasn’t sure what answer he’d expected, but the straight-up shoot down took him by surprise. He’d thought that Barnes might play along at least a little. Might laugh it off or remind Steve that _he_ was meant to be the one getting them out of this. Steve had promised as much the first time they were bundled into a troop carrier like this.

Instead, Barnes’ words were clipped, short and testy, and as the jeep rumbled forward and Barnes kept his eyes on the floor, Steve couldn’t help but feel that Barnes wasn’t telling him something.

*****

**Part XX Preview**

Steve nodded. He had that feeling back, the one right down in the pit of his stomach that left him uneasy and queasy. While everything was still just speculation, Steve could, in fact, be leading the Soviets directly to Chernobog’s staff. Maybe it wouldn’t exist, or perhaps it wouldn’t be there anymore, but when push came to shove, Steve was doing the one thing that he’d vowed not to. It was the reason Steve had left London on his own. The reason he’d given Rumlow and the others the slip in the first place.

The reason he’d gotten Barnes involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a lot to unpack this chapter. Barnes looking hot and like, snow ninja style; the creepy Sharman; Karpov being in Bucharest and being the one to shoot Barens; that amazing insult; Barnes looking hot. Wait. I already said that. ;0 
> 
> BUT. Let’s talk Slavic myths! 
> 
> A здухаћ or zduhać, is basically as Barnes described. They are the wise old warrior of the village, who communicates with their gods to help lead their people. They are, in fact, Serbian (and Bulgarian) so traditional Slavic people who migrated, not original Rus. But we cover that sort of stuff later, because when I said I researched, I mean I _fucking researched_. LOL. 
> 
> What is interesting to us all, of course, is what he said to Barnes. You can go plug that into google translate and that’s all awesome, but you still won’t understand what he’s really saying. 😉 
> 
> The здухаћ called Barnes Вялес, which is Veles, also known as _Volos_ in Russian, and told Barnes that he is too early and that the ice is too thin. Now, Volos is a god said to have battled with Perun (the son of Svarog who we all remember as the light god who fought Chernobog, right) in an endless (yearly) loop of death and rebirth. Aka, the seasons. 
> 
> The second thing that he says is that Barnes must become колядой. _Kolyada_ is a Slavic spirit mostly associated with winter. 
> 
> Basically, its creepy superstitious old man talk for winter not having properly set in yet, right?
> 
> Or is it?! 
> 
> In a really awesome, I’m going to pat myself on the back because someone has to (and this is how deep the Minka research rabbit hole goes) Volos is, in fact, considered the god of wolves, magic and trickery. A god of cunning and many faces. Which describes Barnes pretty damn well, even linking into his Romanian codename Lup Rosu or, Red Wolf. Volos is also said to have sent the spirits of the dead back into the world to act as heralds during the Winter festivals celebrating Kolyada.
> 
> So maybe the здухаћ is warning Barnes to stop being the trickster god stuck in a loop, and become a winter spirit to fulfil a purpose… 
> 
> Or maybe not and I’m just messing with ya all! 
> 
> Either way, if that level of research for a fic (especially when done by a drunk Aussie who’s never been to Russia and doesn’t speak ancient Slavic) doesn’t deserve a comment or kudos, I just don’t know what possibly could. 😉


	21. Part XX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Nothing makes the days tick by faster right now than posting twice a week. I feel like I was just here, doing just this 😉

# Part XX

Steve wasn’t sure how this was meant to go. He got the impression that Rumlow thought it was all easy; that Steve was going to stand in front of a place, look, point and declare ‘It’s there!’ and mark the end of their journey. Steve had already clarified that he didn’t have a magical map with a giant red X on it, but he felt it had fallen on deaf ears.

Standing in front of a cave with a squad of borderline brainwashed Soviet killers and being told to, “Do his thing,” as Rumlow had so eloquently put it, really didn’t leave Steve with a lot of confidence.

Doing his thing involved hunting around. It involved trial and error and generally came packaged with a never-ending string of snarky comments from Barnes. They did this together – even if Barnes didn’t agree or understand that – it was still a group effort, and with Barnes standing silently off to the side, weighted down with Rollins’ ever-present touch, Steve didn’t feel much like trying to make things work.

It was also the first time that they expected him to really think. Usually, that would be fine. It was what Steve was here for anyway, but with Barnes’ life on the line and the sting of biting cold running his brain through with ice lances, Steve could feel that flutter of helpless terror stirring in his chest. It reminded him of the moments before and after he greeted new recruits back in Vietnam. Of the times he’d thought about throwing the inspirational bullshit to the side and telling the men how it really was. Being honest. Telling the green lads and young boys that they’d been sent there to die; that they’d all be wounded, one way or another.

He’d always toyed with it, often contemplated getting up on that box in the middle of the busy drop zone of the base and fuelling the panic that everyone felt. Each and every time, however, he’d said what was expected. He told them they were fighting the good fight, that they would be heroes and that the war would be over in no time. Steve lied, the men cheered, and Steve had always stepped down and thought himself a coward.

Words were hard, but actions were harder.

Steve pressed his heavily gloved fingers into the bridge of his nose and squeezed. He couldn’t feel much; maybe it was the amount of material covering his fingers or because of how numb his face had become in the cold. It didn’t matter anyway, because the action did little to help him concentrate. The paintings were weathered and faded against the dark stone. Time and snow and ice had eroded large patches, but Steve could just make out the remanence of the petroglyphs.

Much to Steve’s shock and relief, there was a noticeable connection between these images and the ones that Agent Coulson had shown him. It felt like forever ago that Coulson had slid those satellite images of the Devil’s Nose across the shiny table, but Steve had been so struck by the strange geometric shapes in the carvings that they’d left an impression.

He didn’t get much of a chance to look them over before Rumlow’s voice shattered his concentration.

“Well? What does it mean?” Rumlow demanded.

Steve sighed, his eyes narrowed against the cold and his breath misting in front of him. The fur hood helped to keep the warmth locked in around his face, but the strange humidity made his skin prickle all the same.

“I’m not a… cave translator,” he snarled. He knew there was a word for that, but fucked if he could think of it now. The cold was mind-numbing; it even hurt his eyes to have them open. How anyone could live like this baffled Steve to no ends.

“He’s stalling.” Rollins spat the words out like a curse.

Much like everything with Rollins, the situation escalated from zero to sixty in a matter of a frozen, fog blanketed moment. One minute he was snarling out his accusation, and the next he’d kicked Barnes in the back of the legs, bringing the Romanian spy down to his knees. Steve could tell that Barnes hit the cave floor hard, but at least with his hands bound in front, he was able to half grab himself.

It didn’t do much good. Not when Rollins’ grabbed Barnes by the throat and yanked his head back up. The action pushed Barnes’ hood back, freeing his face and hair to the cold air as Rollins loomed over him from behind. The muffler still sat over Barnes’ mouth and nose, but Rollins yanked it down with a crook of his index finger.

“Try harder,” Rollins demanded.

The crazy thing about Barnes was that he was so good at schooling his features. Steve could see the hints of a grimace flicker over his lips, and a slight narrowing of his eyes against the frozen cave air, but he was otherwise unemotional. He didn’t snarl or glare, or crumple in pain and fear. Barnes just _was_. He existed, he was there, he was dealing with his lot in life, and he wasn’t pleading with Steve to help him. To save him.

He was so impassive that Steve again had to question if Barnes was just praying for a bullet to finally end it all.

Even so, it spurred Steve into action. Enough was enough, and Steve was done with this. There was a difference between leverage and just everyday cruelty, and seeing that bland acceptance in Barnes’ eyes gave Steve the courage he needed. The worst they could do was – well, Steve faltered for a moment. There were a lot of terrible things that Rollins could do, but there was a balancing factor in all situations.

“I’m not going to help you if you hurt him,” Steve sighed.

That did the trick. Barnes didn’t so much as blink, but the look on Rollins’ face – at least what little Steve could see under all the furs – registered shock. Rumlow shifted his weight from relaxed to poised and ready to strike but remained on the sideline of the impending showdown.

“That’s not how this works, Rogers,” Rollins growled.

Steve stood his ground. “It’s exactly how this is going to work.” He glanced from Rollins to Rumlow, making sure to highlight the motion. Rumlow called the shots here, not Rollins, and Steve wanted it to be evident that he wasn’t going to waste his time with the sadistic second. “Let him up.”

There was a flash off to the side, and Steve knew what it would be. Knives were never far from Rollins’ reach.

“Start talking, or I start cutting.” The way the knife hovered near Barnes’ throat was horrifying. But Rollins wasn’t threatening to slit skin. He was crueller than that, and the blade moved away to rest along the left shoulder seam of Barnes’ jacket. The bastard was intending to cut through Barnes’ clothes; open up seams and expose him to the cold. 

“If you so much as fucking _touch_ him,” Steve threatened, “I won’t help.” Control was everything. In a situation like this, it was all about the bluff and being confident enough to stand fast and unflinching. Steve had never had to risk another life, though, let alone one that he cared deeply about.

“You can be made to talk,” Rollins hissed. The intention was clear, and for a moment, Steve was back in that horrible bunker room, watching as Rollins flayed the skin off Barnes’ arm. He felt his stomach twist and churn, and an intense throb set into the joints of his jaw as his mind continued to wander. The cave faded away, and all Steve could feel was cold. Not this exposed weather cold, but that deep-set damp chill that came from concrete built underground.

It felt like a coffin. A grave and yet another thing that Steve knew he’d fear for the rest of his life.

“You probably can,” Steve reasoned. His teeth hurt; his tongue felt heavy, and it was hard to swallow. But he’d started this, and he needed to play the game. Needed to bring Rollins down and barter some respite for Barnes. “But not through him. Not because of him.”

“You want to take his place?” Rollins laughed. Steve wasn’t sure, but he hated him a little more than Rumlow. At least Rumlow had brains in that jarhead of his, and for all his shortcomings, Steve hadn’t seen Rumlow touch Barnes. Not in the way Rollins did, at least.

“Rumlow!” Steve insisted. The irony of relying on Rumlow was not lost on him.

It was a stalemate. Steve did his best to keep the heat out of his gaze as he stared Rollins down. There was no chance of Steve winning at being the scariest person in the cave, but he could be the most rational. Rollins snarled like an animal and pressed the flat of his knife harder against Barnes’ left arm.

Barnes grimaced but, as usual, remained quiet, while Rumlow shifted again.

“Enough!” Rumlow finally snapped.

The result wasn’t instantaneous. Steve didn’t breathe out a sigh of relief until Rollins was stepping back from Barnes, and that didn’t happen until after Rollins had pressed that knife in again before dismissively shoving Barnes forward onto his hands and knees.

Barnes staggered to his feet on his own even as Steve itched with the need to help him. This wasn’t about being the hero and dashing into his rescue though, and Steve knew that Barnes would have hissed and snarled like a rabid dog if Steve had even tried. This was about Barnes regaining his sense of self, and what little freedom he could.

Once standing, Barnes paused. The tension was heavy in the air, and for a worrying moment, Steve thought that Barnes was going to do something stupid. That he was going to launch himself at Rumlow or Rollins and try to seek retribution. It would have been idiotic and foolish, and Steve would have cursed Barnes out for it, but it was a sentiment that he could have understood at the same time.

Thankfully Barnes didn’t throw himself into an unwinnable fight, and instead simply stood. Everything in Steve would have loved for Barnes to come to him. To move over to his side and stand close; use his newfound freedom of movement to close the distance between them, but there was a vast difference between Steve’s ideals and Barnes’. For now, Barnes just seemed happy to be able to stand in his own personal space, without someone breathing down his throat. Steve had to be satisfied with that and respect it.

It left the group of them in a strange silence. The tension was still there, and now more than ever, Steve could feel the heat of Rollins’ glare, but at least it was aimed at him and away from Barnes for the time being.

With no other reason to stall, Steve moved back to the cave images and kept looking them over.

“These images match with others that I’ve seen,” Steve finally said. “Back in the States. They showed me this place. I don’t know the Russian; the Devil’s Nose.”

“Бесов Нос,” Barnes said offhandedly. The sound of his voice shocked Steve. He hadn’t expected the spy to say anything, let alone contribute something useful. He owed none of them anything, after all.

Steve smiled over at him and nodded. “That sounds like it,” he offered. “It’s a petroglyph site like this one, but it’s way up near Finland.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Rumlow cursed.

“No,” Steve shook his head, one gloved hand waving the immediate conclusion away. “I don’t think we need to go there. At all. If anything…” Steve turned back and looked at the cave paintings. He sighed a little as he tried to find the best way to explain things.

“Again. I’m not an archaeologist or field expert or… so many things. But this looks more… refined than the drawings at Devil’s Nose. To me, that would suggest that these are newer.” It was a massive assumption, and there were so many factors that should rightly be taken into consideration. Climate and available tools, modern exposure and erosion were just a few, and without carbon dating and studies carried out by experts, what Steve saw was all just a hypothesis. Unfortunately, Steve’s conclusions were all that they had to go on right now, so he threw his guess out into the world with as much confidence as he could manage.

“I’m just speculating, but that, to me, shows that they migrated. From there to here.”

It seemed to take a minute for those in the cave to understand what Steve was getting at. Barnes, Steve assumed, clued on pretty quick, but he didn’t seem overly interested. Rumlow started nodding to himself after a brief moment.

“So, it should be here,” Rollins said the words with a hint of a question, all while looking around the small hollow. Clearly, common sense wasn’t a requirement to be a jarhead traitor.

“No,” Steve said flatly. “I’m saying that this myth has travelled through people, over land and across time. It reminds me of all the great pilgrimages to the Holy Land, or how English princes would walk barefoot across the lands to receive the blessing of the Pope. It’s a sign of faith and strategic tribal movement.”

Steve moved along the side of the wall, tilting his head back and forth as he looked at the paintings from a series of different angles.

“All great religious mysteries involve some sort of pilgrimage or quest. The followers are always looking for something or staying on the move to keep something safe.” Steve could almost imagine that he was back in his class, trying to get across the importance of oral traditions and household myths to a bunch of corduroy wearing students.

“I think this very well could be a case of relocation,” Steve continued. “Slavic culture didn’t really start here, after all. They came from the heart of Europe and migrated as the Germanic tribes fled the Huns. Then the Kievan Rus came into power, and the push east happened, populating what was then called _Russkaja Zemlja_.” Steve fumbled over the pronunciation, but no one corrected him, not even Barnes.

“It could very well be that this battle between the gods happened elsewhere, and we’re on the trail of those tasked to protect and hide the aftermath.

“See this, here?” Steve said, pointing to a strange bunch of channel-like carvings that ran up and down the section. “Looks a lot like Lena Pillars.”

Steve didn’t know much about the Lena Pillars. They’d been a point of interest from the very start, but it wasn’t until that strange sensation in Kashkulakskaya cave that Steve had really clicked with the possibility of the location being the staff’s resting place. He knew that it was an ancient cliff face that stretched for miles and that it was mostly made up of chimney-like structures riddled with caves and passageways and channels.

If he’d been some ancient god looking to hide his evil counterpart, then a maze like that made perfect sense.

“This line here. It’s smaller. Thinner and shorter but carved in deep. See how it’s not part of the overall pattern. It could represent a marker. A spot – it is even staff shaped, really – floating over this deep dip.

“If these marks line up with the cross-section of the pillars, then it could very well be a map leading the way.”

“Basically, an arrow?” Rumlow concluded.

Steve nodded. He had that feeling back, the one right down in the pit of his stomach that left him uneasy and queasy. While everything was still just speculation, Steve could, in fact, be leading the Soviets directly to Chernobog’s staff. Maybe it wouldn’t exist, or perhaps it wouldn’t be there anymore, but when push came to shove, Steve was doing the one thing that he’d vowed not to. It was the reason Steve had left London on his own. The reason he’d given Rumlow and the others the slip in the first place.

The reason he’d gotten Barnes involved.

Looking over at the spy, that strange feeling fluttered, first intensifying before then depleting completely.

Steve had done a lot of questionable things in his time, and this would be one of his life’s bad decisions. But, looking at Barnes, Steve knew that the choice was well and truly out of his hands. In an ideal world, it would have just been him and Barnes standing here. Barnes would be getting shitty over Steve taking forever to look at old cave paintings, and the onward drive would have been filled with snipped remarks and secretive smiles.

But that wasn’t how things were, and no amount of hoping could change that.

It brought Steve full circle, his mind finding peace with his actions as the uneasiness settled. He was doing this for Barnes. To protect him; to keep him alive, and maybe Steve was fucked and wrong, but the idea of saving the one at the cost of the many didn’t even seem like just a concept of ethics anymore.

“Come on,” Steve urged, moving closer to Barnes. Steve got the feeling he must have had a dopey expression on his face from the puzzled frown Barnes sent his way, but Steve didn’t care. He simply smiled back and let Barnes walk a few paces ahead.

*****

Time was a strange thing in the back of the truck. They could have been driving for days for all Steve knew. Then again, with the mind-numbing dullness, it could have been mere minutes since they’d set out from the petroglyph site.

They all sat in rigid silence. Barnes was still on Steve’s left, but they didn’t talk, not when surrounded by their ever-watchful, trigger happy companions. It was also clear that Barnes was exhausted. He dozed, slipping in and out of sleep as the ZIL-131 personnel carrier rocked them back and forth. Steve was surprised that Barnes could sleep under these conditions, but then the spy had been through a lot in the past couple of days. Pain had a way of forcing the body to eagerly shut-down, and Steve could hardly begin to imagine how much Barnes’ arm had to hurt.

Steve did his best to support Barnes by wedging him in close and letting the slumbering man’s head loll onto his shoulder.

It wasn’t until the ZIL jeep jerked and tipped unexpectedly that anything about the mundane drive changed.

Try as he might, Steve couldn’t stop himself from sliding down the bench seat and colliding with Barnes. It pushed the spy against the metal cab, sandwiching him no doubt painfully against his left arm and waking him up rudely. 

“Sorry,” Steve murmured. Barnes’ soft cry of pain had drawn his attention, but Steve was a little too preoccupied with the second jerk of the vehicle. 

Logically, the motion was easily explained by the wheels being bogged. It was like all the time Steve and Barnes had slogged and bunny-hopped their way out of the swamp. All it took was one wheel to go, and the whole equilibrium of the personnel carrier would be lost.

What didn’t make sense was how they could possibly be bogged in the first place. They weren’t out in the slushy mud or sinking in sand. They were driving over the hard road of-

“Shit,” Barnes hissed, drawing the conclusion moments before Steve did.

Ice. They were driving over ice.

As if to prove the danger of the realization, the vehicle tipped and pitched again, rolling and shifting in a way that clearly had the front right side moving steadily lower.

Directly after that, the isolated bubble they’d been in shattered, erupting into chaos. The back door flew open, exposing them to the biting cold of the wind and bleary glow of the white landscape. Steve hissed and shielded his face as the soldiers around them started shuffling to the entrance and jumping down. Each movement rocked the vehicle, sinking the front lower and causing Steve’s heart to leap higher into his throat.

“Get them out!”

It was Rumlow yelling, his voice whipped frantic by the sound of the wind and the scrambling of feet. The tone of Rumlow’s voice could have almost been mistaken for concern, though Steve knew it was only tinged with the need to keep both him and Barnes alive for the knowledge they possessed. The last of the Soviets turned to grab at them, jostling them forward in a way that sent a massive creaking noise echoing through the emptying space.

There was little reason to resist. Steve wanted out of this damn truck, so he let the soldiers guide first him, then Barnes up the slight slope the pitch of the vehicle had made, and then simply accepted the hands that reached for him, guiding him down to the ground.

After a great deal of squinting and waiting for his eyes to adjust, Steve was finally able to see what had caused such immense panic.

It wasn’t just the vehicle that they’d been in that had hit a thin patch of ice; one of the guide jeeps had also met the same fate. It, unlike the personnel carrier, had already sunk to the halfway point, the front and engine dipped so far under the ice that the rear wheels were up in the air. The whole thing was perched precariously by its driveshaft, the heated metal hissing against the rigid edge of the hole. The soldiers had looped chains to its back bar in an attempt to ground and hoist it out, but it appeared to be doing little good.

The ZIL-131 he and Barnes had been in was steadily heading in the same direction. Its front right wheel had fallen clear through, tipping the truck forward and sideways awkwardly. Even as Steve watched, he could see it inching further into the slushy water. 

He and Barnes were shoved out of the way and into the custody of their American captors, but not before one of the Soviets snapped a pair of cuffs back around Steve’s wrists. Steve instantly lamented the freedom lost, but there was no point in complaining.

Rumlow and Rollins were on the sidelines, just like Steve and Barnes. There was a clear divide between the Americans and the Soviets, and if Steve hadn’t been so preoccupied with the unsettling tremble of the ice under his feet, then he would have found it interesting. Might have even found a way to exploit it. Clearly, Rumlow called the shots for the whole mission, but the Soviets had their own agenda and own commander, and it was their problem and job to try and deal with the sinking vehicles.

The Soviet soldiers were shouting among themselves, men looking to their feet while clutching their guns. As if that would help them.

The translator from the village, Karpov, was yelling orders and flailing his arms, herding the men up like a flock of terrified sheep. They were moving together, closing ranks as if the ice was an approaching army. Guns were being slung over shoulders as the men fell into order. He organized them into groups, some hooking the vehicles together with chains while others worked at salvaging supplies from the two trucks that were already doomed to sink.

“We need to get off the ice,” Steve yelled to Rumlow. The American soldier nodded slowly, his eyes darting over the scene playing out before them. The Soviets seemed to have the situation under control. Like worker ants, they lined boxes up and hauled chains while others edged the still safe vehicles painstakingly slow out of the chaos.

“We’ll wait for them on the bank,” Rumlow decided.

The last thing that Steve wanted to do was be left with just Rollins and Rumlow, but even that seemed better than standing out here as the ground shifted and moved.

Thankfully Barnes, for once, didn’t put up any sort of protest. He looked just as ready as Steve felt to be on solid ground. With his compliance, neither Rumlow nor Rollins’ seemed too interested in pressing their control, and for the first time since capture, Steve and Barnes were able to walk under their own steam. It was a far cry from freedom – where the hell would they go even if they did try to run? – but at least it was a start.

They got little more than a hundred feet away when the ice shook again. This time the rumble that accompanied it was like the crash of thunder, loud and echoing over the wind.

Steve froze, his blood running cold and his heart leaping into his chest at the earth-shattering creak of the ice. A quick glance down at his feet showed nothing but solid, mirror-like ground, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d heard it. He’d felt it – the shift – it had reverberated up his legs and left his knees feeling like jelly. So close. So strong and destructive.

The river was straining against the early winter ice and the weight of their convoy, and the scrambling about of all the soldiers was not doing it any favours.

“We need to spread out,” Barnes said. His eyes were blown wide with uncharacteristic panic. He’d heard it too, and his eyes were locked on the chain line of workers trying to unload the bogged truck. Steve could remember when he’d assumed that Barnes feared nothing. That the spy had somehow trained himself to never register that emotion. After everything that they’d been through now, that seemed so far away. Steve had seen more fear in Barnes in the last few days than he had in the weeks and months before. Here. Now. That wild look in Barnes’ eyes was even more poignant than when Rollins had pulled his damn knife out back in that bunker.

Rumlow had paused at the sound, his head swivelling even as his feet remained rooted to the spot.

“We’re too close,” Barnes said again. The wind stole his words, playing them only for Steve to hear. “It’ll crack under the weight.”

As if on cue, the river gave another mighty rumble and over the howling of the wind and snow, Steve was sure he could hear a gurgling sound. Like an overworked drain struggling against a blockage.

“Steve.”

A brief frown flicked over Steve’s face at the sound of his given name. It was so alien to his ears, so unexpected, especially from Barnes’ lips.

Steve turned slowly, looking back to where Barnes had inched his own way towards the shore. He was breaking free of the group and moving on his own, but he came to another sudden stop.

Those icy grey eyes were locked onto a patch of ground just in front of his feet. Steve followed the direction and sucked in a deep breath.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Between him and Barnes, there was a fault line. A dark crack in the ice, so deep that it was visible to the naked eye. It ran like a snake, twisting and splitting the world apart, the end fanning out like the roots of a tree.

“Off the ice,” Rumlow commanded. His tone carried a slight shake of apprehension.

“Fucking move, Barnes,” Rollins hissed right after.

Steve heard it all, but he couldn’t bring himself to move or respond. His attention was entirely stolen by the cracks between him and Barnes. They were growing wider. Spreading apart; branching out. Water bubbled up in between them only to turn hard and shiny as it froze.

It didn’t seal the gaps.

“Barnes,” Steve said softly. Barnes heard it; Steve knew from the way that Barnes’ eyes flashed up to his, wide and scared.

And then the unthinkable happened.

The ice didn’t split, the world didn’t end, but Rollins was growling in Steve’s ear as he stalked past him, straight towards Barnes. Maybe he didn’t see the sizable cracks, or maybe Rollins knew more about surviving in these conditions and trusted that there was no immediate danger. None of those options stopped Steve from panicking, though.

“Rollins, no!” Steve shouted. 

Rollins ignored him. He took another step, then two and three more, closing in on Barnes while reaching for his bound hands.

Nothing happened. 

Steve breathed out a thankful sigh as Rollins sided up to Barnes and even the rough way he grabbed at Barnes’ bonds and shoulder couldn’t stop the relief from flooding through his system. Steve had been so sure that the ice would crack. That they’d both be sucked under, and while Steve couldn’t give a flying shit about Rollins, he’d felt his blood run cold just at the thought of Barnes falling through the ice. After everything they’d been through, and all they’d endured, being dragged into a frozen Siberian river would have been an inconceivable end.

Fate had always been a fickle thing, though, and Steve should have known the dangers of premature relief.

It all happened in a moment. A split second that, for once, Steve understood completely.

The ice was cracked, the scene was set, and while Steve’s fears could anticipate the outcome, he never could have guessed the start. He’d feared that the world would split apart, and Barnes would be pulled under, a victim of circumstance and terror.

But he’d forgotten one crucial thing.

Barnes was no victim.

Rollins’ grabbed him and was in the process of yanking the spy forward, snarling something about doing what he was told and moving; that was when Barnes, still with his hands chained, struck.

He was as fast as Steve remembered. Lethal and deadly just like back in Bucharest, back in that pit of a club where Barnes had knocked the sense out of Steve in a matter of seconds. Like a viper, Barnes was still one moment and then poised to kill the next. He was his namesake; The Winter Soldier; cold and deadly and controlled.

He swept Rollins’ feet out from under him with well-practised ease, and as Rollins fell, Barnes didn’t miss a single beat. It was morbidly inappropriate, but Steve couldn’t help but inwardly laugh; clearly, they should have kept Barnes’ arms behind his back after all.

But Barnes didn’t go in for the kill. He didn’t scramble across the ice in a mad dash to get away, or even lose himself in a wrestling match for a weapon.

It was Rollins’ weight hitting the ground that fully cracked the ice, the edges of the split grinding against each other as the balance was tipped. That had clearly been Barnes’ plan all along. But the sound of shattering ice wasn’t enough, not for Barnes, and Steve watched in stunned horror as Barnes jumped – fucking _jumped_ – on the side of the fault line.

The resulting fissures were light, at first. Cold white across the mirrored surface, they turned dark as water started to surge and push through the cracks that Barnes had made.

The world tipped; the river shook. Water gushed.

Steve could feel the rumble under his own feet as the tension ripped the world apart. 

*****

**Part XXI Preview**

BAHAHAHA. No. 

No more previews from here on out, kids. 😉

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, I don’t have too much to say. Feeling really flat. Also, if I go ranting about anything at this point in the story, I risk the possibility of letting accidental spoilers slip. 
> 
> That is also why there will no longer be chapter previews. It’s just too hard to pick passages that don’t give anything away, but still hold some sort of context and relevance. 
> 
> What do you all think is going to happen from here? Are we glad to see Bucky playing with ice? Anyway. As ALWAYS, comments and thoughts are greatly appreciated and shall be used as virtual happy pills and mood boosters.


	22. Part XXI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. So I just watched The Old Guard. Holy hell. That was terrible. I was so pumped for a smart action blend of shoot ‘em up style with axes and swords and instead got… that. Even my love for Matthias Schoenaerts just didn’t help. 
> 
> Anyway. Normally I’d post this second part tomorrow night, but I have plans, so I figured I’d get it done now so I don’t accidently forget! 
> 
> I suggest getting yourself a drink.

# Part XXI

The ice around Barnes and Rollins cracked and lifted, forming a terrifying floating wedge. Rollins was on the ground, groaning in shock as Barnes did his best to balance his weight.

But balancing had never been Barnes’ end goal. Steve could see that. Could guess it from the cold look in Barnes’ eyes and the way he held himself. He was there for the kill. To return some unwanted favours and bring Rollins down.

The chain reaction that followed was catastrophic, and Steve had to wonder if Barnes had planned and expected all of this. Had Barnes somehow known that his actions would break the whole damn world apart? That with one single movement, he’d personally sink Rumlow’s entire operation?

There was a part of Steve that fully believed that. If Barnes was anything, it was cunning. Ruthless, yes, and calculating to a fault. Snappy and frequently harsh and self-serving, but all that came from one place. That deep-rooted intelligence that no punishing training or horrible past could create. Training could only get someone so far, and traits like that were born, not taught.

There was a reason that the Romanian refugee had been hand-selected and shaped into The Winter Soldier.

With their section of the frozen river tearing itself apart at the seams, the reverberations carried across the whole surface. Soviet soldiers yelled and screamed as the chaos hit them. The half-submerged jeeps sank further and faster as the weak points in the frozen river swallowed their hard work and progress.

Still stuck in what felt like an endless loop of slowed down milliseconds, Steve watched the scene unfold.

Rollins was struggling to roll back onto his feet on the unstable ground, but Barnes put an end to that. The spy clashed with the traitor, pinning him to the ice with his own body. Limbs and puffy jackets blended in Steve’s vision, but he saw them roll over and over, first right then left as the icy raft pitched and moved with them. 

It only took a few horrifying moments for Rollins to gain the upper hand. He was stronger than Barnes; larger and broader and currently healthier. Rollins hadn’t been held captive for days or tormented and tortured and ferried around like chattel. He wasn’t restrained, and he was armed.

It was, in Steve’s opinion, an unfair fight, and one that Barnes clearly would never win.

But, of course, Barnes was _Barnes_. And Steve knew first-hand that the other man was a deadly force to be reckoned with.

The Romanian flipped their positions with a deft move that Steve’s panicked mind couldn’t track. A twist of the hips and a push of his shoulders, and Barnes took the fight from a face to face grapple to a suppression hold within a split second. It still left Barnes on his back, but instead of Rollins bearing down on him, the American jarhead was locked in the tangle of Barnes’ legs and had Barnes’ restrained arms hooked over his torso. The short length of the chain only solidified Barnes’ grip.

“Fuck,” Rumlow swore. Steve could only just hear it over the erratic beating of his own heart, but it was enough to tear Steve’s eyes away from Barnes and seek out the double agent. Rumlow was lifting his gun, his draw cumbersome with the cushioning of his jacket and his over-padded fingers.

Steve launched himself into action.

Pushing forward, Steve dropped his head and shoulder and rammed into the other man. He took Rumlow low, catching him in the side and pushing against his gun arm. The shot still went off, the sound almost deafening to Steve’s ears, but he could tell that the bullet went wild and low, embedding deep into the already shattering ice.

“Fuck!” Rumlow hissed again as they hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and sharp edges. Straddling Rumlow’s hips, Steve used his bound hands to punch into the centre of Rumlow’s chest, trying to drive the wind out of him. It wasn’t as effective as Steve had hoped, the layers and layers of material and insulation cushioning the blow and rendering it almost useless.

Steve switched tactics and aimed for Rumlow’s throat instead, his forearm skidding along synthetic material with a teeth-clenching squeak. He wedged his arm in under Rumlow’s chin, pushing and heaving his weight onto the delicate column of windpipe and spine. He gripped his own right fist with his left hand for added pressure and pushed. Just like Rumlow’s chest, his throat was heavily padded, but this time Steve could see results. Rumlow’s eyes blew wide, his mouth opening in shock as Steve bore down on him.

It was never a balanced fight. Never even a real battle to begin with. Bound and preoccupied with the sounds of Barnes and Rollins struggling behind him, Steve was an easy weight to dislodge. After the shock of the attack had passed, all Rumlow had to do was lodge his fingers under Steve’s throat and yank his head to the side while driving his knee into Steve’s left lumbar. It was enough to wrench the air out of Steve’s lungs, and ice crunched as their positions were reversed. With all the extra padding, Steve’s bound hands scrambled unsuccessfully as he tried to roll them over a second time. How Barnes had managed to do the same to Rollins confounded Steve, but then, he guessed, he had never had reason to learn to fight with his hands restrained like this.

It was awkward and chaotic and claustrophobically close and held little more training than a schoolyard scrap, but it was one of the most critical fights of Steve’s life. He couldn’t let Rumlow help Rollins. It would mean death for Barnes. Or worse. Steve pushed and bucked, rocking his body from side to side to help move the floating ice ledge that they were on. He tried to get a knee in between Rumlow’s legs – there was no such thing as fighting dirty when lives were threatened – but Rumlow blocked the attempt with a snarl.

Rumlow reached for his dropped gun, but Steve swiped a thick-covered arm at it. It cluttered to the side, and Steve squirmed enough to be able to kick the gun away. It skidded across the ice and tumbled off the edge, forever lost to the freezing depths of the Lena River. Rumlow snarled again, his teeth bared like a wild animal, and it was all Steve could do to make sure the ice didn’t tip them both off.

There was a lot that Steve could say about Rumlow and his questionable decisions and wavering loyalties, but there was no denying that the soldier had been trained well.

He also hit like a hammer.

The first blow to his face shattered Steve’s ability to think with a spray of blood and a jarring, shocked gasp. Steve felt it rattling all the way through his head, jolting his spine as his lip split wide. The blood only stayed warm for a few seconds before the cold started to freeze it against his skin, icy and hard and painful.

Normally, Steve would have moved to block the blow. Normally, Steve would have been ready for it and able to withstand it. _Normally_ , Steve wouldn’t have been bound and pinned on his back and lost in a hopeless situation.

He tried to lift his hands, both to push Rumlow away as well as to protect his face, but they were far too easy to pin down when bound together. Rumlow had him immobilised and controlled with his head wide open for attack, and there wasn’t a single thing Steve could do.

Rumlow’s fist fell again, and again, and then Steve felt himself go lax.

Dazed and subdued, Steve blinked hazily as the world continued to fall apart around him. He could feel his body rocking and tipping, the ice moving with Rumlow as the man got unsteadily to his feet, leaving Steve punch-drunk and subdued.

Rolling his head to the side, Steve could see two distinct things. The first was the halo of red splayed across the ice. It hissed and bubbled as warm met cold and then fizzed toward freezing. That was his blood, his mind supplied.

Beyond that, and even more importantly, Steve could see Barnes.

Barnes still had his thighs wrapped around Rollins’ middle and the short length of chain between his cuffs wedged under the man’s chin. Even at this distance, Steve could see the strain in both of them; the battle of wills and strengths as they rolled across the ice. The puffiness of their jackets and the fur of their hoods mingled with Barnes’ unruly hair. Plumes of snow scattered as they moved, rolling with the sway of the ice sheet as the two men wrestled back and forth.

Barnes was dark as night against the translucent ice, the shadows of himself strangling the life from Rollins’ blue-clad body.

Rollins kept trying to sit up, to rock forward and slam Barnes back to the ice like a wrestler, but Barnes pulled him down by the throat and did his best to offset the attempts. Rollins’ hands roamed and scrambled, grappling backwards to close around Barnes’ left arm. Even from a distance, Steve could hear the pained cry Barnes yelped out. But it wasn’t his hands that were choking Rollins. Not muscles prone to relaxing at intense pain. It was the very chains that had bound Barnes for so long that choked the air out of Rollins’ throat, and the more pain Rollins caused, the more Barnes tried to bring his arms into himself protectively.

“Someone shoot him!” Rumlow commanded. The order fell on deaf ears; what had once been organized and disciplined had turned into chaos and panic. People yelled and screamed. It was a mishmash of Russian with Rumlow screaming English over the confusion, but the panic and fear translated clearly. A dog whimpered near Steve as others barked. The sound of claws scratching against the smooth surface had Steve grimacing as he finally rolled fully to his side. He felt sorry for the animals, but self-preservation was a fantastic motivation to block all but the most essential things out of his mind. The action made his head spin and the world tilt and dazed as Steve was, he wasn’t able to tell if it was all a result of the blows to the head, or if it was the ice moving under him.

It didn’t take long for him to realise that it was probably both. Rumlow had stepped off the platform they had both been on, risking a jump to another sturdy section. It sent Steve’s frozen raft into a dangerous tilt, and despite the pain throbbing in his head, Steve had to scramble into a crawling position else risk slipping right off. Dazed and nauseous, he spat a cooling glob of blood to the ground.

Slowly the chaos started to make sense. The sounds balanced out with what Steve’s eyes were able to see. His vision was painful and sluggish, and his eyes slow to respond, but eventually, he could make out more of the world around him.

The Soviets had placed value in the vehicles and its supplies, and as they’d tried to salvage those, the sled dogs had been roped together and left to the side. The poor animals were suffering the same fate as the rest of the convoy. Strapped together and with one or two already sinking, there was no amount of scrambling, pulling and howling that was going to save them.

The vehicles were even worse off. The soldiers had been trying to winch the sinking trucks out, but with the wave of cracking ice Barnes had set off, they were left with dangerous chains binding everything together over movable, unstable ground. Steve was still reeling from the blows, but he was sure that by this point, they were going to lose it all.

And that, of course, left the epicentre of the destruction.

Rollins was dead, or at least unconscious. His face was almost as blue as his jacket, his limbs finally limp and immobile. Barnes shoved him to the side like unwanted garbage before crawling precariously to his hands and knees.

Steve watched as Barnes lifted his head and turned narrowed, hate-filled eyes to Rumlow.

Over the time Steve had known Barnes, he’d often thought that the spy reminded him of an animal. Something deadly and cunning used to stalking their prey and killing swiftly. Barnes was a viper, or smirked with the intelligence of a fox, or tracked his victim with the dangerous focus of a Siberian tiger. Steve had felt like a man stalked by a shark when Barnes had paced and looked Steve up and down from head to toe, all those months ago.

The way Barnes looked at Rumlow now was a wild hybrid of all those analogies and more. A manticore with the sole purpose of death and retribution.

Clearly, Rumlow felt the weight of that gaze. “Fucks sake! Someone shoot him!” Rumlow commanded again. It was the first time that Steve had ever heard fear in his voice. But the Soviets had their own problems, and there was no one around to hear Rumlow’s orders. 

It was only a matter of moments before Rumlow found another gun, or found a way to gain the upper hand. Steve knew that, as did Barnes. Even Rumlow would have been aware of it.

For the briefest of moments, Barnes looked over to Steve, and that triggered Rumlow as well. Steve felt the weight of both their attention, but it was only Barnes that he cared about.

Their eyes met as Barnes shifted to sit back on his haunches.

Rationally Steve knew that this was a turning point. A moment between the three of them where boundaries would be shifted, and lines of battle rearranged. Right now and with Rollins’ corpse at his side, Barnes was no longer a captive. Not in the typical sense of the word, and Rumlow only had one way of bringing him under control. 

Once again, Steve was the bargaining chip. He’d been punched into shock, was weaponless and closer to Rumlow than Barnes. All Rumlow had to do was get to Steve before Barnes either escaped, or found a way to tip not just the ice, but the tides of their situation.

Everything in Steve wanted to play the hero. He wanted to be able to get to his feet and run; jump across the ice like some dashing, indefatigable warrior. But with the way his head and spine reeled, he knew there was no chance. Taking a punch or two was one thing, but being whaled on while pinned to the ground was something else entirely. Just kneeling the way he was had Steve’s head spinning and his stomach-churning. The idea of standing and moving over the constantly rolling ice wasn’t something he could entertain.

Just like back in the forest, when Rumlow had shown his true colours and zapped Steve with the stun gun, Steve was now the liability in their three-way of hatred and power plays.

And so, Steve looked at Barnes, and Barnes looked at him, and they both ignored Rumlow.

There was so much in that look. So many words unspoken and emotions that could never be voiced. Even from so far away, Barnes was whispering in Steve’s ear, and those words were all that Steve could hear. The _only_ thing he’d hear, because, with that one look, Steve understood.

Barnes had once looked like a mythical being shaped of light and dark, and he’d once turned to Steve and said words that echoed in Steve’s mind.

_“I’ll die before I go back.”_

And Steve understood.

All it took was an inch, maybe two, and the precarious balance that Barnes had was lost to the turbulent rock of the waters.

“Bucky!”

The shout fell on deaf ears. Not because Barnes was ignoring him, but because the river shifted against the straining ice as it made ready to swallow Barnes whole.

“No!” the shout was out of Steve’s throat before he realised, and his body was propelling itself forward. He skidded over the ice, his nylon clothes squeaking as he went. Blood blurred his vision from a cut he could hardly feel and his stomach twisted in a way that had his body shuddering with the force of his gag reflex.

But it was all for nothing. The ledge of ice Barnes shared with Rollins pitched and swayed as the river swallowed the ZIL-131, and there was nothing that Steve could do.

Barnes slipped and slid, his bound hands scrambling for leverage. There was nothing – so much powerless _nothing_ – there to help him; nothing but Rollins’ corpse. Steve frowned slightly as Barnes latched onto that as if his life depended on it. Barnes’ hands scrambled and grappled over slippery material, deft fingers locking around belts and collars as his war against balance well and truly came to an end.

The wedge of ice lifted, the water churned underneath and caused small waves to rock Steve’s own precarious perch. In the distance, Steve heard a man screaming as the cold took him, and the crack as another section of the river-turned-road gave way.

Dogs whimpered in a way that made Steve heartsick.

Barnes went without a sound. Not a scream, not a cry. Not even a shout of Steve’s name. It was just the squeak of Rollins’ clothes as Barnes dragged the corpse of his nemesis down with him.

With their weight gone, the ice slammed back down, smashing into place with an almighty groan.

Barnes was gone. Rollins was gone. The convoy was gone. Barnes had shifted deliberately, tipping the scales of their stalemate and making a choice that was wholly his. It was a self-sacrificing play, and maybe it was because he didn’t want to keep being a captive, or perhaps it was because he couldn’t mirror Steve’s own choices; couldn’t put himself at risk to keep Steve safe the way Steve had for him.

Steve would never know because Barnes had, for the first time in days, been able to choose for himself.

In turn, Steve felt his stomach lurch right before he vomited his shock and pain into the still swaying ice.

* * *

Mission Report: 22nd December 1981

2220 hours

Vienna International Centre

48°14′05″N 16°25′01″E

Vienna, Austria

File: 6108’46N

Subject: Captain Steven Grant Rogers

* * *

Steve had told himself that he wouldn’t get emotional. He’d looked at his bruised face in the mirror before walking into this room, and he’d reminded himself to be strong. To be resolute. He’d affirmed that he could do this; that he just had to explain what happened and that there’d be time for emotions later. Emotions didn’t belong in this room. Sitwell would be able to sniff Steve’s pain out like a bloodhound and use it against him.

Above all else, Steve had to do that for Barnes. For Bucky. For his memory and everything that the spy and resistance fighter had stood for. This, right now, wasn’t about Steve. It was about honouring Barnes’ memory, highlighting his deeds and bringing him the credit he deserved.

Later, Steve would have all the time in the world to feel. Time in a steamy shower that would never be hot enough. Time with a bottle of vice to try and drown the pain.

“And so you’re telling me that Barnes murdered Rollins, and then died himself?” Sitwell pressed. There was a hint of expectant irritation in Sitwell’s tone and, lost to his own thoughts, it was an indication that Steve had paused in his recount.

“No,” Steve said with a shake of his head. “ _Murdered_ isn’t the word I’d use.”

“You just said that Barnes strangled Rollins to death. That’s-”

“Justice,” Steve interjected. Across from him, Sitwell’s jaw clenched, and his hands went back to his files and folders, straightening them absentmindedly.

“I don’t think either of us is qualified to play judge and jury,” Sitwell finally said, remarkably diplomatic. It actually took Steve by surprise. He was expecting more of a push from the agent. More resistance that would have Steve biting his tongue and fighting the urge to smash Sitwell’s head into his damn files.

“But I would appreciate your honest opinion,” Sitwell continued. “Do you think Barnes did it on purpose?”

A frown twitched between Steve’s eyes. Try as he might, he couldn’t anticipate where Sitwell was going with this. “His fight with Rollins?” he asked, seeking clarification.

“No,” Sitwell said, and for once he didn’t sound like a condescending prick. It was slightly confusing, especially as Steve’s emotion-torn mind struggled to catch up. “His actions. His death. Do you think he predicted the outcome?”

Steve looked to the glass of water in front of him. For a moment, that water churned and sloshed, and the glass rippled and shone like ice. He could hear the shouts and the rumbling of engines. The feeble spin of tyres lifted off the ground as vehicles sank; the distressed sounds as the dogs tried to claw their way free of the chaos. The screams choked by freezing water.

Steve had to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose to drown it all out.

“I do,” Steve said after a moment, his eyes opening as he sucked in a deep breath. Warm, climate-controlled air. Stale, but somehow safe. “I think Barnes saw an opportunity and he took it.” Steve had thought precisely that as he’d bled over the ice, as well as in the days that followed.

“To die?”

“No.” Steve frowned. It ran more profound than that. Barnes’ brain wasn’t wired that way; there were layers and levels to his intelligence and reasoning that people like Steve and Sitwell would never understand. It had never just been about dying to escape the clutches of the Soviets.

“I think he saw an opportunity to completely incapacitate the Soviet forces.” Steve sighed again. He could feel the warmth of tears prickling at the edges of his eyes. There was no way to hide that, so Steve wiped at them quickly and harshly, angry at himself for showing emotion. He’d wanted to remain impassive. To tell his story and leave this whole bloody, chaotic mess behind him.

But some things just hurt too much and remembering the way that Barnes had orchestrated his own demise wasn’t something that would lose its sting any time soon. 

“But he knew what he was doing,” Steve breathed. “About death. He said he’d die before being taken back to the Soviets, and so he took himself out of the equation. Saved himself, in a way. Levelled the playing field and made it easier for me.”

Sitwell did this thing with his eyebrow that Steve knew all too well by now. It lifted up high enough that it pointed over the top of his glasses, clearly indicating that he expected Steve to continue and elaborate.

“Without Barnes there, and with Rollins gone, Rumlow’s power faded.”

No sooner had Steve paused to suck in a fortifying breath, the tape recorder beeped, warning the approaching end of yet another cassette. Sitwell went through the motions, taking the tape out, numbering it, and adding it to the growing pile in the box at his feet. It was close to overflowing, and Steve watched as Sitwell pulled a blank one from the dwindling collection off to the right. They’d already had to pause and ask for more twice during the debrief.

Once the tape was locked and loaded with the spindles turning, Sitwell stated the interview information into the mic, recording the date and time and the file number that Steve knew by heart now.

Steve took a drink as he waited, and let the room temperature water soothe his fears of ice and cold.

“Are you certain James Barnes is dead?” Sitwell questioned, the words shocking Steve and making him flinch. “After all, he’s fooled entire governments before,” Sitwell elaborated.

There was no way Steve could help it. He blinked like someone had just thrown a glass of water in his face. Cold water. Icy.

He wasn’t sure why, but he hadn’t expected that question, not after his heartfelt recount, or the way that he’d seen his own hand trembling as it had reached for the glass. Sitwell had always been heartless, and Steve was aware of that, but to have that suspicion come out now broke what small part of Steve’s heart was left.

“Technically,” Steve mused. He was stalling for time, trying to cover his shock at the pointed audacity of the question. “He _escaped_ Lubyanka. And then the Soviet Union fooled the CIA into believing that they’d executed him. Bit of a difference there, don’t you think?”

“Technically,” Sitwell agreed with a curt nod. “But Barnes’ skillset certainly warrants the question.”

The idea that Barnes might have survived _hurt_. Hurt more than the knowledge that he was dead. While the outcome of Barnes being alive was a beautiful dream, it was just that. A dream, and one that Steve didn’t want to cultivate with foolish hope. 

“No.” Steve finally said it. Just the one word and it came paired with a long-suffering push at his eyes and the bridge of his nose. It made the light burst behind his eyelids, reminding Steve just how long he'd been sitting in this windowless room, recounting every single painful thing that had happened since he’d left D.C.

“You weren’t there, Agent _Sitwell_ ,” Steve wanted to hiss the name like a curse, but he was tired. Too tired and the attempt fell short. “I’m sure you’ve experienced a cold day or two. You know, between the home and office. Just like all of us. But out there?” Steve shook his head, his body instinctively prickling at the memory of that foggy, icy wind. “No. He was dead the moment he went under. In that sort of cold, and with no one to drag him out; there’s no chance. Just like all the Soviets, and all the dogs that went under. There’s no coming back from that.”

Steve had to believe that. He _did_ believe it. It was too cold, and the surrounds too harsh for anyone to survive out there, let alone on their own. Barnes, the Soviets, personnel carriers and jeeps; they were all lost to the bottom of the river. Maybe one day in a summer that seemed too far away to imagine, they’d wash up on a distant shore, bloated and lifeless, or with rusty engines, but that wasn’t something that Steve would be privy to.

Sitwell, thankfully, seemed to understand. He moved on, but not before shooting a fleeting glance towards the glass wall and rechecking that the tape was running.

“While Barnes’ involvement in this case is of particular interest,” Sitwell started up again. “The story does not end with him.”

Honestly, Sitwell could have chosen more considerate words, but then Steve should have known better than to expect any sort of reprieve. Besides, he didn’t want it. They were in the endgame now, and more than anything, Steve just wanted this all over and done with. He wanted to go home. Get out of Europe and back to his D.C. flat. And then he wanted to cry, and he wanted to rage and yell and drink and scream and smash things; anything and everything that would help the pain go away.

“Professor Rogers. What happened next?”

Steve sucked in a deep breath and sat back in his chair, fortified and ready to bring this to its conclusion.

“Winter came for us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not too sure what to say here. Maybe:
> 
> Points for realistic head wounds, round two! 
> 
> Or:
> 
> **Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.**
> 
> Remember that there’s a few more chapters before you just cancel culture the whole story, but feel free to vent in the comments ;)


	23. Part XXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot shorter, and part of me is a bit ERGH about that, but then… there's nothing else really to be said. And it can't join with before, because then it wouldn’t have meant anything. And it can’t join with the next because then it will be faaar too long, and come with too many scene jumps and not enough emotional impact. And then I didn’t want to pad this out with unnecessary words; especially not when short and harsh really cuts to the point. 
> 
> So we’re all just going to have to deal with it 😉

# Part XXII

The chaos that followed the failed river crossing was like nothing Steve had ever seen. And he'd seen a lot. There'd be times in the past – back in Vietnam – when Steve had been sure he'd come face to face with the proverbial _End_. That anarchy driven, free for all madness that set in after something earth-endingly shocking had taken place.

Compared to Siberia, even being in the middle of a blood-splattered jungle would have felt like a welcome relief.

Steve knew the heat, he knew the mud and the sound of bullets and the fear of traps under the leaves. He knew the look of soldiers pushed past their limits and struggling to keep their heads in the game. He understood the frantic shouts of medics and runners, the hushed prayers and the bark of orders and cries for help that flooded radio channels. All those things were solid and real in Steve's mind. Terrifying and they haunted his dreams and brought pause to his steps, but they were a _part_ of him. Situations and moments that had shaped him as a person.

This? Out here? Frozen and cold and beaten into shock, was the most alienating sort of panic that Steve had ever known.

For all he hated Rumlow, Steve wasn't blind. The man was a good commander, and even Steve's muddled mind could see that. Rumlow pulled them through the mess; barked orders and demanded translations from a stunned Karpov. The Russian was bleeding from the head; the wound looked nasty, and Steve could have sympathized if he'd been able to feel anything other than an insanity-inducing mash of fear and sickness.

The survivors had clawed their way to the banks of the Lena River. Rumlow had done the same to Steve, dragging him over shifting ice sheets like a dead weight and throwing him in with the scavenged supplies. Boxes and crates built up on the solid ground; a dog or two tethered to a tree, left to whimper over the loss of their pack. Steve felt for them and empathized with them more than he thought should be possible.

Steve was numb. Too numb. It wasn't from the icy winds or the lingering dampness of water clinging to this jacket. It wasn't the finger-freezing, squeaking snow that Rumlow had managed to drag him into.

The cold Steve felt ran deeper; so much deeper. It spoke of emptiness and loss, and that mind-breaking, selfish realization that he was alone. Of being abandoned in the worst of ways, and that unspeakable defeat and hollowness that came with forced solitude.

It was shock and hate and terror and pain and denial and so many other emotions Steve couldn't even begin to understand, all wrapped up in a kaleidoscope of a silent scream. His mind twisted and churned, swaying from one feeling to another with the same fevered pitch and roll of the ice that had stolen what was left of Steve's focus.

Steve didn't know much about these sorts of winters. He knew that it got cold in some parts of America, but it was nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to negative fifty Celsius. Maybe if this was some mild winter and not subarctic circle Siberia, then there would be a chance. They could move across the ice and see Barnes, his breath forming pockets of air, and they'd be able to save him. Be able to break back under the sheets of frozen separation and pull him out.

But this was the Soviet Union. This was _Siberia_. A place that Steve knew little about other than how destitute and hard, cold and unforgiving it was. There was no coming back from going under the ice here. No happy endings of being wrapped in a blanket and given hot tea to help defrost the fingers. A cosy fire to huddle around.

It wasn't just Barnes, either, though that was the only person that Steve cared about. But what had started out as an issue with one vehicle had morphed and wound into total destruction, all within minutes. Seconds, even. The Soviets had been trying to get the ZIL-131 back upright when the ice had fractured all across the surface. It wasn't just Barnes who'd been caught out on a ledge.

They'd lost four out of the five vehicles that had formed their convoy. The last one still sat out on the ice, balanced and poised and yet floating in a sea of certain death. There was no way to get it to the shore, not even as the gaps between the ice froze over by the damn second. The fault lines were there, and they ran too deep to pass.

All but three of the dogs were gone, either swallowed by the river – or, worse, pulled down by the ropes that bound them – or fled out into the wilds during the chaos. Siberian sleigh dogs weren't loyal, cuddly pets, and those who survived the cold would be feral and stealing livestock like their wolf counterparts by winter's peak.

Finally, there were the Soviets. Steve didn't know how many had made up Rumlow's troupe, but he guessed there would have been at least thirty given the capacity of the vehicles. While he wasn't trying too hard to count right now, Steve figured he'd seen six, maybe eight of them left.

The cracks in the Lena River hadn't discriminated when swallowing the unsuspecting trespassers.

Reality floated and ebbed around Steve. Even left on his own, as he was, the idea of making a bolt for it never even occurred to him. Where would he go? What would he do?

What was left?

"Come on, Rogers," Rumlow huffed. It was a rough shake and reminder of where he was, and yet Steve's body did nothing as Rumlow reached for him. Steve felt the world shift, and he was hauled up to his feet, his head spinning dangerously in the process.

Steve tried to take a moment to think rationally. To assess the situation like the seasoned soldier and trained fighter that he was. He knew pain; he understood it. Both physical and mental. There was a small part of him that could still subscribe to logical thought; Rumlow had taken him down with brute efficiency. Steve likely had a concussion; he could feel it in the throbbing pain in his face and the ache in the back of his neck and spine. That, Steve's rational mind supplied, was dangerous, and Rumlow was right in getting Steve up and making him move. Sleep would be wonderful – unconsciousness even better – but both would also be as good as a death sentence out here.

That reasoning side of his mind ticked over to the idea of shock. What had gone down here was borderline cataclysmic. Steve might not have given a damn about any of the people here – apart from that one – but the death and destruction that had taken place were still palpable in the air. Nature and winter had killed with the same relentless, indiscriminate destruction as a spray of bullets, or a bomb dropped from above.

And then there was Barnes. Barnes. Barnes who had orchestrated his own destruction. Who had, for the first time in days, taken matters into his own hands and stolen back control. Barnes, who had jumped on that ice and set about a chain reaction so devastating that the spy could have been the very embodiment of death himself. After all, hadn't the Sharman back at the village called Barnes a god? Maybe he really was the harbinger of death, and Steve was so completely fucked because there wasn't a single part of him that wouldn't let each and every man here die a thousand times over just to bring Barnes back. Resurrect him from the dead like some shadowy deity bent on retribution.

Just the thought of Barnes, of seeing that look of resignation in his eyes as the ice began to tip, made Steve's stomach churn and his reflexes constrict with the want to gag. He wanted to sink into the snow and not move. Close his eyes and nap to shut out the harsh realities of the world. He could sleep through the pain of loss; through the shock of it all, and sleep until he knew nothing else.

But if Steve died now, then it would all have been for nothing. Barnes' death would have been in vain, as would those men who'd stood by Barnes back in Bucharest. Their struggles that had taken them through some of the harshest places in the known world, under curtains of iron and hatred, across locked borders and through the darkness of madness and fear. Through blood on the floor and Barnes' silent screams that could only be seen in his eyes.

All of that would be for _nothing_ if Steve gave up now.

Rumlow wouldn't stop looking, nor would the Soviets. Surely Rumlow had called in their locations and intended target. Steve's death wouldn't stop squad after squad of power-hungry Soviet forces from descending on this area and tearing it apart until they found what they were looking for.

He had to go on. He had to believe that this staff was a real, tangible thing, and Steve _had_ to be the one to find it. So he could destroy it. That was the only option left here. And if he died trying, then at least he would have done his damn best to keep the world safe.

Shrugging off Rumlow's hands, Steve got his feet under him and stood on his own. He ignored the spin of his head and sucked the half-frozen blood off his lip, rolling it over his tongue until he could spit it out, hot and hissing into the snow at his feet.

He looked at Rumlow in much the same way that a cornered fighter eyed their opponent while waiting for the end.

"Let's get this over with."

*****

Lena Pillars was nothing like Steve could have imagined. He'd seen a few pictures when flicking through old maps, but the location hadn't been too much of an interest to him until later in the mission. By that stage, it wasn't like he could hit up a library for some research.

Despite his knowledge, Steve's mind had never conjured up anything more than a mountain range. A massive, unforgiving, multifaceted cliff face with a cave that opened like the yawning mouth of a long-dead giant.

He should have guessed that Siberia wouldn't deliver the expected.

For better or worse, once the river bedraggled group had found their feet and Rumlow had whipped them into action, Steve realized that they were on the right side of the river. During the insanity of the fight, the idea of going east or west hadn't even occurred to him, nor had the very real idea of being trapped on either side been a priority.

Clearly, even in the chaos, Rumlow had thought that over. Steve bitterly resented him for that. While being on the eastern side of Lena River did make things easier, there might have been more of a chance to avoid this entire scavenger hunt entirely if they'd been trapped on the west.

It took them a day to walk the rest of the way. The weather was as unforgiving as always, the fog heavy and dense and suffocating. Steve was sure he hadn't seen more than three feet in front of him the entire trek.

Together, they froze, and together, they suffered. One of the Soviets had a crushed hand – a by-product of rocking ice and heavy boxes – and the young man whimpered as he walked. Steve felt sorrier for him than he did anyone else, but that didn't mean that they were about to be friends. They were all exhausted and pushed past their limits, damp and with ice frosting over their winter shoes. With the majority of the dogs gone, the soldiers had been forced to pile supplies onto the one sleigh they'd managed to save, and were now taking turns pulling it themselves. It must have been gruelling work, with each bump and frozen chunk hindering their process, and for once, Steve was thankful for his captive status. It liberated him from the physical task, though it did leave his mind with little else to focus on than the cold and a stomach knotting sense of loss.

Lena Pillars were, much like their namesake, massive plinths rising up to the sky. Between the fog and the falling snow, they seemed to appear like magic; one minute there was nothing but more void-white, and the next, the darkened rocks rose up before them. Steve could still apply the giant metaphor, only instead of a mouth-cave, they were faced with the curled fingers of death, clawing at the heavens with desperation. There were also far more than the usual five; the pillars themselves numbered in the hundreds, maybe even more, all twisted, gnarled spikes that rose impossibly high.

They spent the first night camped at the base, dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of the natural structure and huddled around fires that cast eerie shadows in the snow.

Rumlow had hoped that the morning would bring a respite from the fog and a chance to step back and survey the lay of the land. Steve was sure that there had been a map at some stage – a crude, local thing, as documenting remote cliff faces had never been a pressing issue of the Soviet Union – but it seemed that it was just another thing lost to the Lena River.

The morning, however, brought nothing but more fog and a ghostly wind. It screamed through the furrows in the rocks, the sound reminiscent of those dying in the icy waterways. Steve had closed his eyes and listened for Barnes. It was stupid and irrational, and Steve knew when the power of hindsight came, he'd look back on the moment as being batshit crazy. But that morning, he'd hoped for a sign. For a sound. A whispered word. A ghostly promise; a threat of vengeance heralding the return of a fallen god.

With no choice but to head up, the Soviets cracked open their crates and unpacked the gear they'd been lugging around —ropes and picks and carabiners and harnesses; climbing equipment that foreshadowed the challenges ahead.

*****

They lost Karpov on the third day.

If Steve was a better person at heart, then he would have felt for the loss. No death should be celebrated, but when Karpov had paused on the trail, his hand resting against the icy wall long enough that it tore with the sound of frost when he fell, Steve didn't feel anything. Not sadness, not remorse. Not relief or thankfulness. Nothing.

The Soviet translator was just another body to leave in their wake. If this ever ended and there was reason to turn around and find their way out of the Pillars, then Steve was sure they could use the corpses as human breadcrumbs.

Not including Rumlow, Karpov and himself, the Lena River survivors had come out at seven, and Karpov was officially the fifth to crumble under the harsh conditions. Treacherous paths wound between the chimneys of rock if one could use that term concerning the slippery, unguarded slopes. They lost two soldiers to missed footing, on separate occasions. All it took was one wrong step, and then there was nothing by a long drop and jagged stop on the rocks far below.

Rumlow was leading them on a suicide mission. Steve knew that Rumlow had to know that, and while there was still a considerable language barrier, Steve was sure that the Soviets were aware as well.

The American traitor was growing obsessive. He pushed them relentlessly, striking out at first light and driving them through twisting, winding tracks well past the fall of night. They camped huddled together for warmth and defrosted their fingers with fire melted snow.

Every day became the same as the last. Endless tracks, cold, oppressive rocks and no reward.

On the fifth day, two of the Soviets had had enough. Their desertion lasted mere seconds before Rumlow shot them down as they ran.

For his part, Steve had watched the snow turn red and counted in his head. He counted bodies and bullets, chances and opportunities for him to put an end to this entire ordeal.

They stopped at every cave, every crevice and hole, and each and every damn time, Rumlow turned to Steve and asked if this was it? They crawled until the elbows and knees of their puffy clothes ripped and tore. They wiggled into gaps that they, by right, shouldn't fit into. Up hollow chimneys, down mountain shafts full of frozen roots and desolation with nothing but the echo of the wind for company.

No petroglyphs. No chest or staff or anything with an otherworldly blue glow. 

Nothing.

"Is this the place, Rogers?" It became a broken record, sometimes being the only words said all day.

Steve gave up trying to explain his previous points. Rumlow didn't listen, the Soviets didn't understand. There wasn't a map with a giant red X on it to lead the way. Just a hunch and a whispered voice in the dark that – god, the more Steve thought about it, the more insane it sounded. This was all guesswork and speculation; there wasn't even any way to prove that this whole fucking myth was even real, and the further into the snowy drifts of the pillars they trekked, the more Steve could hear Barnes' voice.

_"If. There are so many if's, Steve!"_

And _._

_"You ruined their lives, and the lives of their families for a fairy-tale?"_

And.

_"You. America. Blew up my world because you think an old Slavic fairy-tale is going to blow up yours?"_

Each and every word sat heavily with Steve, weighing his footsteps in the snow and threatening to sink him in the sea of his own regrets and remorse.

What had he done? What had he allowed his country to do to him? To inflict on others.

Barnes had been right, all the way back then. Back in Bucharest. Back when none of this had even started.

And yet, it had. Wheels were in motion, cogs turning. Barnes had already lost countless people close to him in the name of Steve's ideals. Just because Steve's own ordeal hadn't yet begun didn't mean that he hadn't already emblazed a trail of death and destruction in his wake.

The horrors of his own choices and his personal blind loyalty tasted like ash in the back of his mouth. It melded with the biting cold, churning cement into his stomach every time Steve breathed. The people who were dead? Those in Bucharest and every unaccounted one that had fallen since. The flaps of Barnes' skin left rotting on the floor of a Soviet bunker. Everything that the river had taken and swallowed and claimed; that was all on Steve. They were the consequences of his decisions and weighted repercussions of his choices.

So when, after almost a week of searching and breathing air so cold that it felt like razors in his throat, Steve saw his opening, he took it.

They were down to three, and the lone Soviet soldier was so far gone to the panic and the idea of death in the snow, that he was of little use. If Steve was honest with himself, then he forgot the kid was even there. All that mattered was Steve and Rumlow and the fact that Rumlow's gun was down and that Steve felt like the odds would never, ever be any more in his favour. 

All it took was a look. Steve's eyes flashed from Rumlow to the gun and back to Rumlow. The American traitor matched it with eyes that traced a similar path.

The Soviet soldier saw it all, and he kicked the clash of right and good and wrong and evil into motion by running. Running in the opposite direction, no doubt knowing that Rumlow couldn't shoot both him and Steve.

It was the opening that Steve needed.

Like the breaking of waves against rocks, he and Rumlow crashed in the middle, limbs flailing as they dragged each other down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously! Come at me, guys!! What‘s going on? Tell me! 
> 
> No one’s cracked it yet, and it makes me feel like I’m secretly some genius even though I know I’m not. And I don’t know why, but typing that just made me remember this time I got day-tipsy in a bar in Brasov over Halloween and then thought it would be fun to go on a walking tour, and ended up in another bar, afterwards, with two Aussie guys who were just… one was trying to get in my pants (dress) and the other got really confused about the idea of guerrilla warfare thinking that it involved actual fucking gorillas. Intelligence, ‘ay?
> 
> Yeah. So. That’s where my head is right now. So entertain me. We’ve got two chapters left, so now is a great time to come out of the woodworks (I see you all there, lurking and subscribing but never commenting!) and say something! How’s it going to end?


	24. Part XXIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if many of you ever read other people’s comments, but you should all totally go back to last chapter and read Half_Arsed_Muse’s story length write up of the ending! I mean, it’s not what happens, but it’s a good AU idea, and there was some serious Bucky channelling going on! ( _‘I thought you were smarter. I’ve died before, if you recall. Didn’t stick that time either.’_ ) Fucking gold!

# Part XXIII

* * *

Mission Report: 22nd December 1981

2235 hours

Vienna International Centre

48°14′05″N 16°25′01″E

Vienna, Austria

File: 6108’46N

Subject: Captain Steven Grant Rogers

* * *

“You killed Agent Rumlow?” The way Agent Sitwell said the words made Steve think the man may have been in shock. Was Rumlow that prized an agent? That good a fighter, or survivor?

It was dark to think, but Steve knew for sure that Rumlow was neither of those things.

“He slipped,” Steve said simply.

“That wasn’t the question.”

Steve shrugged, his eyebrow lifting with his nonchalance. Sitwell had that pinch-faced look about him; all tight-lipped and clenched jaw and rigid back. He looked on edge. Anticipating. He was hanging on each and every one of Steve’s words, like Steve was spinning some fairy tale injected with drama for tension and suspense. It made Steve’s stomach twist dangerously.

“Do you really want a play by play?” Steve challenged.

“I just want the truth,” Sitwell countered. “What happened out there. In Siberia. How you ended up in Mongolia. What happened to Agent Rumlow.”

Steve sighed and looked away. There was a part of him that screamed over the sign of weakness. They said that people who were lying looked to the left as the creative side of their brain thought over what to say. Other’s said that it was all in the eyes; a flash of shock and panic as they searched for words. Steve, by now, knew better.

The look was deliberate. Calculated.

“That’s three very different, very segregated questions,” Steve pointed out as his gaze trailed back, slow and languid and unhurried. He didn’t look at Sitwell though, instead taking in the files and tapes and watching the man out of his peripheral vision. There was a twitch in Sitwell’s expression again, the one born of stubborn perseverance and the want to berate against challenge.

“Did you kill Agent Rumlow?” Simplified. One thing at a time.

Steve could play that game.

“Yes,” Steve finally said. “I killed Brock Rumlow.” Steve’s eyes flicked back to lock on Sitwell, and Steve let his hatred and the overwhelming weight of his life decisions burn into the other man. “We fought. And when the opportunity came, I gladly threw him off a cliff.”

Folded into the crooks of his arms, Steve’s fingers twitched with memory; tight and hard and clawing. Scratching. Nails bending. _Pushing_. Crushing. “I looked down more than once to make sure he was dead.” Steve lifted his chin and swallowed words best left unsaid, and then offered ones that condemned him anyway. “And I would do it again in a heartbeat. Over and over and _over_ again if I had the chance.”

Sitwell took the words about as well as Steve imagined. There was that eye twitch; that less than subtle clench of the jaw and a shift of the papers. Steve knew that Sitwell viewed Rumlow as a prized agent. Maybe they’d trained together or spent some sort of time bonding. Either way, Sitwell was clearly affected by the callous nonchalance that Steve used to wrap up Rumlow’s part in all this, and honestly, Steve couldn’t have been happier with that result.

In fact, it even made Steve question the interviewing agent’s loyalties.

“And what happened in Siberia?”

“I’ve already told you all that,” Steve said. He knew perfectly well what Sitwell was fishing for, but after hours in this room with the agent, it was entertaining to push his buttons, especially at this critical time in Steve’s recount.

“You know perfectly well what I mean, Captain Rogers.” There was that Captain thing again. Sitwell used it as a weapon; wielding it when he was digging deep down under Steve’s skin and poking for a response.

“What you want to ask is if we found Chernobog’s staff,” Steve countered.

And wasn’t that the kick to all this. That harsh reality. Sitwell didn’t care about Steve’s story, at least not more than paperwork and government-based deniability was concerned. None of them did. They didn’t care about the men gunned down at The Red Door while protecting Barnes. They didn’t care what Barnes had done with his freedom or the way he’d built himself an army that could have rattled a city right out of the clutches of the USSR and overthrown a ruthless dictator.

Sitwell didn’t give a damn about the countless Soviet soldiers that had lost their lives just because they had orders to follow Rumlow into the jaws of winter. Steve didn’t care too much for them either, but they were still human, still collateral damage in this violent scavenger hunt.

They still mattered.

“We spent close to a week out there, clambering over those pillars like ants.” Steve sighed, and this time, when he took a sip of his water, he turned his gaze to the mirrored window. It was harrowing seeing his own reflection there, but he knew that he and Sitwell weren’t alone. He only hoped that he was glaring down someone important.

“One by one, we fell. I may not have cared for the Soviets, but they were just men following orders. They probably had families, and one by one, they died out there. Frozen and half-starved while we looked in every crevice we could find.

“If it is there,” Steve said with a sigh. “If it was _ever_ there, then we would have found it or discovered some trace of it.

“Or,” Steve added, “it’s somewhere else entirely, and if that’s the case, then I don’t think it will ever be found. Not intentionally,” Steve finished with a shrug. He sat back in his seat, his weight creaking it against the linoleum flooring.

“Or,” Steve laughed with a hint of bitterness, “it’s exactly what it is. A myth and a legend, and that would mean,” he paused, feeling the following words like lumps in his throat. They rolled painfully over his tongue as he said them, “that _everything_ was for _nothing_.”

It was strange how a whole room could just stop. Steve didn’t move; Sitwell didn’t move, and Steve was sure that those behind the glass were also rooted to the spot. Truth had a way of doing that to people, especially when it came to fantastical tales about god-like weapons that made no sense. Why had anyone even thought this was a tangible, real-world possibility?

Of course, there was the voice in the cave, and even now, Steve felt like shivering just remembering it. But maybe Sitwell had been right. Perhaps it was all in Steve’s head; an underlying soundwave that had made monsters in the dark. That, of course, didn’t explain the words Barnes had said, or the things the spy had claimed to see. But rationally. _Rationally_. Steve had no way of knowing if Barnes had any prior knowledge of the place at all. Maybe he’d read some of the articles Steve had, or maybe he’d heard about the place through folk tales and stories.

_Maybe_ Barnes had played him like a fiddle even there, just to get Steve to move and leave. The Romanian had never liked dark places and enclosed spaces, so the motive was there.

“Finally, then,” Sitwell said. His disappointment was evident. It sat like a dark cloud over the room, a testy mood, like that of a perturbed child being told no for the first time. “All that remains is how _you_ managed to arrive at Ulaanbaatar Airport, claiming to be an American in need of extradition.” There was an underlying insult there that Steve chose to see, acknowledge and irritate in kind.

“I drove.” Steve purposefully chose the words, their simplicity aimed to dig in under Sitwell’s skin.

“You drove?” Sitwell echoed, half a question and half disbelief.

“After a week, the ice had frosted back over, and the last of the Soviet trucks was left untouched.” Steve could remember the way his heart had raced in his chest with each and every step out onto the frozen river. It had somehow been one of the scariest things he’d ever done, as well as one the easiest.

After all, it wasn’t like he had anything else to lose. He wasn’t about to just give up and die without a fight, but if it was his time, then it was his time. He wouldn’t fight against fate.

“And it was just… miraculously working?”

“It took a bit,” Steve admitted. That was, in fact, an understatement. “The locals have this trick. They heat up the engine and defrost the driveshaft with a small gas blowtorch.” Steve more than understood the look that crossed Sitwell’s face; he’d felt the same pang of fear himself. “I figured that the worst that could happen was that I’d blow myself up. And that sure as hell would have been a better way to go than freezing to death. Or starving. Quicker than being mauled by a bear, too. Or a pack of wolves.” 

Those had been some of the most frightening minutes of Steve’s life. It was a strange notion to fear for himself and not someone else for a change, but his descent down the dangerous slopes of Lena Pillars had well and truly pounded that emotion into him. 

Walking across the ice had done something else entirely. Steve’s mind had run away, summoning up images of bodies floating just below the surface. Of Barnes, cold and blue and icy-dead, scratching against the underside of the ice like a ghostly figure in a Brontë novel. Steve imagined the cracks opening back up and hands reaching and pulling and dragging him down. Weighing his sins against the icy waters locked below.

“What about the border? How did an American with no papers manage that?” There was, Steve thought, much more to that question than just a wrap up of his story. It was miraculous that he’d made the border crossing on his own, especially after he and Barnes had so vehemently decided against a Mongolian detour after their time in the swamp. It wasn’t just Sitwell who wanted to know this or SHIELD. It would be the entire CIA; if there was a way to smuggle their own spies across a Soviet border without bloodshed, then that could mean a turning point in this non-war.

“Vodka and snuff,” Steve provided, neither helpful nor secretive. “The Soviets like their vodka and those on the borders of Mongolia are pretty partial to the snuff pouches as well. Helps combat the cold and, I’m sure, helps them forget whatever sins they committed to be sent to such a rural outpost.

“I waited for night to fall and the temperature to drop, and I rolled the jeep across the border in the neighbouring field. They’re not big on fences out there.” That was true. Really, the border was laughable, but it was the fear of the regime that kept people out, and the seemingly never-ending wastelands of Siberia and Mongolia that prevented people from fleeing.

The Mongols were nomadic and impossible to pin down, and they had no interest in politics or ruling government systems. They’d hardly even blinked at Steve as he’d rattled on by, the suspension of his shoddy Soviet truck edging worse and worse as the miles passed.

“I was long gone by the time they would have seen the tracks.”

That marked an eerie turning point in the interview. Sitwell shuffled in his chair, and Steve was sure it was one of the few times that the robot-like man had shown discomfort. Papers were shuffled, folders opened and closed, and Steve watched as Sitwell glanced at the recorded tapes in the archive box next to him.

“It’s been a long day,” Sitwell finally said. It was hard for Steve to keep himself from sighing in agreement. Calling it a long day was laughable. He was sure that they were pressing against a second day, if not an eternity.

“Thank you for your time, Captain,” Sitwell said, and Steve felt his skin prickle at that last little dig. It had to have been intentional. A final jab under Steve’s skin to wrap the day – _night_ – up.

Sitwell pressed his intercom button, and, just like that, the room went from closed off and suffocating, to a hive of activity. The door opened as clerks came in and started collecting the files and boxes, and a woman in a smart suit smiled at Steve.

“We have accommodation sorted for you, sir,” she said politely. After Sitwell’s passive-aggressiveness, it came as an odd surprise. The bulky man with a slightly ill-fitted suit beside her lowered the thrill. Steve knew an armed man when he saw one. “We’ll wait for you in the hallway.”

Steve nodded his thanks and, as the chaos subdued once again, he pushed himself to his feet. His body ached from inactivity, and as much as he wanted to remain stoic in front of Sitwell, he couldn’t help but crack his back.

“Agent,” Steve said with a small nod, mustering all the polite pretence he could bear. Sitwell managed the same for him, and it left Steve wondering what the other man thought. Steve hadn’t done too much of that during the interview. Sitwell’s was one head that Steve had no interest in thoroughly understanding. Delving too deep there would have been catastrophic for Steve’s own mindset.

Even as Steve crossed the room, Sitwell remained in his chair. His fingers were playing with the one file he’d held onto when the rest had been taken away. Steve wondered what was inside. What little part of the whole recount had Sitwell kept for further scrutiny? What titbit had he come into the room with that he still wanted to keep on hand?

“Did you ever find out who left Barnes’ file on your desk?” Sitwell’s voice filled the room once again.

Steve paused at the door, his brows lowering.

“No,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. Casual. The tape was still running; still recording. “I still have no clue.”

And that might have been the most honest thing Steve had said all interview.

*****

“I get the feeling I’m happier to see you than you are me.” Sam’s voice had been a sound for sore ears, and something that Steve hadn’t realised he’d missed so much.

“It’s not like that, Sam,” Steve had told him. It hadn’t been hard to manage a smile as he’d pulled Sam into a warm hug, even if it did irritate the split still healing on his bottom lip

They’d foregone their usual bar stools and had instead tucked themselves into a booth toward the back of the room. Sam had used his infinite charms on the woman serving, ordering their usuals and laughing over the idea of keeping them coming. He hadn’t even blinked when Steve had ordered a Stoli on the rocks as well.

It felt surreal to be sitting in a known bar across from Sam after all this time.

Steve hadn’t gotten much of a chance to see Vienna. It wasn’t like he was there on a sightseeing holiday, and the American government made sure he was aware of that. Once released from Sitwell’s questioning, Steve had been ferried to a room in a hotel around the corner. It was all very much like London; one suit and one black Mercedes after another, and Steve felt more like a criminal or some highly contagious patient zero than a newly returned hero.

As luxurious as the accommodation was, Steve was still little more than a prisoner. He wasn’t permitted to leave the hotel to roam the streets which, he begrudgingly guessed, was fair. Steve was, after all, an illegal American refugee who’d just stumbled out of the far side of the Soviet Union, months after having been deemed ‘missing’. He’d slipped out of the watchful eyes of MI6 and disappeared from London which certainly labelled him as a flight risk.

He’d spent a lot of time getting acquainted with the hotel bar and their choice drink known as _barack_. The sweet apricot brandy had gone down smoothly, and if it wasn’t for the music choice, Steve might have lost himself in the dim lights. But _Dear Mr Fantasy_ was hard enough to swallow, let alone when _Paint it, Black_ came on the radio.

Steve had left, drink half-finished and headed back to his room before fate would throw something even worse.

In that hotel room, he sat. And he waited. He slept and ordered room service and a bottle of local vodka that had promised to be just as good as the Rus original.

It wasn’t.

If he’d been naive enough to think that his interview ordeal was over, then he would have been sorely disappointed. They came for him again the next day, escorting him the few blocks and into a room that was wholly different from the first, but just as identical. Standard issue design and Steve had lost some time wondering why this room was chosen. Was there someone else being interviewed in the one used yesterday?

That second day had been about visuals. Confirming that Barnes was, in fact, Barnes, using old photos that the American government had dredged up. Steve felt like it was a move solely meant to hurt him, maybe even to get him to crack and let something damning slip.

After Barnes came the other Americans. Photos of Rumlow and Rollins – as if Steve might have gotten their names and faces confused and accidentally reported the wrong agents as spies. It was hard, but Steve did his best to be as polite and diplomatic as possible, even if just the sight of Rollins’ ID photo made him want to punch things.

It was demeaning, but Steve endured it with as much grace as he could muster. Once that was over, he pointed out locations on maps that all seemed to be noticeably different to the one Barnes had used.

On the third day, he’d run into Agent Carter in the hallways. Her red lips and rolled hair were impeccable as always, but there was a guarded, wary pull to her smile as she greeted him. They didn’t have much time to talk, but Agent Carter explained she was here to offer her opinions and observations on Agent Rumlow and his lot, as well as provide details on what had happened to the task force once Steve had slipped away.

They’d parted ways with the promise to catch up for dinner and a drink. Steve had avoided the hotel bar entirely after that. It wasn’t that Steve disliked Agent Carter, but he didn’t feel much like talking, and it would be impossible to know if any conversation would be as friends or if each of her words and questions would come loaded with ulterior motives. 

Steve only had to hide in his room for another two nights before the expected knock at the door came. Usually, it meant that Steve’s assistance and presence were required elsewhere, so he already had his jacket in hand when he opened the door. Instead of his usual escort, Steve had been faced with a different nondescript man, who’d handed Steve an envelope before heading off.

Inside, Steve found a business class ticket back to DC and a booking reference for a town car to the airport. It would be picking him up in two hours.

Looking back, it was strange how much the envelope had thrown Steve. Clearly, the government was done with him – at least on this side of the world – and he was being sent back home.

Home.

Steve hadn’t really thought about DC and home in that sense of the word in months. But it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go or, clearly, any other options at this point in time.

Given his severely limited possessions, Steve hadn’t had to do anything more than stuff his one duffle bag full and wait for the car. Everything went like clockwork, and once at the airport, he was whisked through the Diplomatic Services, where his lack of a passport wasn’t an issue.

They brought his whiskey in one of those funny little glass bottles that only held one standard shot of the liquid. The vodka came the same, and Steve poured it into a glass and drank it like water.

Barnes had been right, all those many weeks ago; Soviets did good vodka.

DC welcomed him back like any city could. Honking horns and angry taxi drivers and smog that sat so heavy that Steve had marvelled over how he’d never noticed it before. Was it always this bad? Always this thick and suffocating?

There’d been another round of interviews and questions, though this time, they were a lot more laid back. The tapes of his extradition to Austria had been shared across the borders, and Steve only had to clarify a few extra points. No, he really didn’t know who had put the files on his desk, and yes, Barnes had been alive, but now he was really dead, and yes, Steve had killed Rumlow. Though, yes, Rumlow had it coming.

Steve had endured it with all the grace of someone stripped of choice. He answered, and he retold, and he sighed as he listened to tapes and read over transcripts. Yes, he really had meant to say that, and yes, he was aware that it made him sound like a degenerate.

His apartment was the same, untouched and stale, with the American government flipping the bill for his rent while he was away. His mail was piled up under the door, a tripping hazard as he’d pulled his heavy feet and light shoulder bag into the foyer. Everything he’d taken with him was lost; left in Bucharest, and everything he’d gained since then had found its end in an Austrian dumpster.

Or, he thought bitterly, under Siberian ice.

He wondered what Barnes would have thought about his little apartment. It was small, and it was for one, but Steve had always thought it was homely. Comfortable in a way that invited people in; asked them to stay; showed that its owner was open to change and expansion.

Now all Steve saw was brown and ruddy mustard yellow, and cabinet handles that reminded him of Georgian safehouses riddled with bullets. A uniform blandness that spoke of conformism and the conscious decision not to make a choice and commit.

It reminded Steve of the standardised regularity of a Soviet residence.

This apartment wasn’t home. Not anymore. And the more Steve thought about it, the more he was sure he’d never have a home again.

Even the streets had changed, or at least, that was what he told himself. In reality, it was Steve who had changed, and deep down, he knew and understood that. But it was easier to think that the grass around the Washington Monument wasn’t as green as it should be this time of year, or that the European expat who ran the magazine stand on the corner of Pennsylvania and 12th looked at him differently now.

It had only taken Sam two days to both establish contact and then another two to bully Steve out of the house. It was a tough sell, but one made infinitely easier by the promised comfort of his best friend. Steve had thought of his friend a lot during his travels, often asking himself the age-old question of ‘what would Sam do?’ when faced with difficult challenges.

And so Steve had showered and found clothes in his wardrobe that didn’t really suit or fit any more. He’d lost weight while on the road. Nothing drastic, but enough for his shirts and pants not to fit as snugly as they used to. At the same time, he'd gained some muscle mass from all the walking and climbing and hauling of supplies. The Soviet winter hadn’t done his pale complexion any favours either, and once the hugs were over and the first drinks were sculled, Sam said as much.

“You’re one pasty ass, sad-looking white boy,” Sam snarked. It reminded Steve that he hadn’t cut his hair in months, or shaved in weeks. 

But that. Sam. That, right there, was exactly what Steve needed. If smiling when he’d first seen Sam was easy, grinning and barking out a laugh at those words was even easier.

And so, Steve had talked, and he’d drank, and he’d talked some more. And when he’d been close to drooling on himself, Sam had carted his sorry ass home, and two nights later, they were back in the bar and at it again.

Steve had a lot to say, both sober and drunk.

He’d told Sam everything, of course. Or, at least as much as he was allowed to. Some things were classified, like names and distinct places, but when it came to Barnes? Well, that was Steve’s story to tell, and Steve took advantage of that. He told Sam everything; every angry word or hissed insult, every way that light danced in Barnes’ eyes, or the devilish beauty of his smile. Sam knew what it had felt like for Steve to touch Barnes’ cheek in the face of the darkness of Kashkulakskaya cave, and the horror that Steve had felt when Barnes, way back before he should have even mattered to Steve, had taken the bullet in the back alley of Bucharest.

“I’m fine,” Sam cut in at some stage. His eyes were doing that thing that suggested he was being serious even though he was smiling like the teasing shit he was. “Thanks for asking.”

“Oh god,” Steve sighed, his head falling into the cradle of his right hand. “I’m a horrible friend, aren’t I?” They’d been sitting at the bar and Steve had been making little circles on the counter with the condensation of his glass. They’d done this once before, and if Steve shut his mind off for even a minute, he could remember Sam teasing him about pretty smiles and hunting down dates. He was almost sure that they were in the same seats.

“Well, you did just turn that around and make it about you again,” Sam shrugged. He waved at his favourite waitress for another round, and she delivered it with a smile that Steve might have – should have – noticed if he wasn’t such a sad sack.

“But I get it,” Sam said. “You were gone a long time, man. A long time. And you went through a lot.”

“I really didn’t expect…” Steve stopped himself. It wasn’t that he worried about what Sam might say, or what Sam might think of him. They were friends. Best friends: childish as that description might sound.

Steve worried about the words being said out loud, and what they might mean to him – to his own fractured mentality – once voiced.

“What are you going to do?” Sam saved him by asking instead. It was the million-dollar question, and Steve was sure that it had been burning in the back of Sam’s throat for hours now. Days, even. Hell, Steve had been waiting and waiting and waiting to hear it, even if he didn’t have an answer.

Steve wanted to fit back in, to pick up where he’d left off. To go back to teaching and laughing with Sam and pulling punches while sparring. He wanted to stand in a classroom of open-minded, up-and-coming leaders of tomorrow and tell them about his firsthand experience in the field. Reiterate how critical spoken legends and history was, and how valuable it was to push further and record everything. Write. Learn. Educate. See the world as the rapidly changing, evolving gift that it was.

As much as Steve desired all that normalcy, he was acutely aware that, after everything, it was well out of reach.

With the conversation dead in the water, and his glass running on empty, it left Steve with nothing but rings of condensation seeping into his sleeve as Sam’s question changed.

“Where are you going to go?”

It cut Steve to the bone.

He might not know the answer, but he knew he couldn’t stay here. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *expectant waiting*
> 
> As always, I live off your feedback and comments. ;)


	25. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should all trust my fic related music by now: [Wild at Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_QmJvNWHW4). Listen to it. 
> 
> Using this chapter to cross off **B5** – _Mercenary_ from my [Bucky Barnes Bingo Card](http://minkawrites.com/bbb-card/).

# Epilogue

* * *

**"Peace is not the absence of conflict but the ability to cope with conflict by peaceful means."  
_Ronald Reagan,_** **_9th May_ ** **_1982_ **

* * *

Beirut, Lebanon

7th August 1982

_Seven months later..._

Steve sighed and kicked the door closed behind him. It rattled in a way that had flakes of plaster falling from the ceiling and, for a moment, Steve was sure the door was about to fall clean off its hinges. He honestly wouldn't have been surprised if it had.

Lebanon was a shitfight. There was no other way of describing the political turmoil and the horror that rained upon the country. The Israeli army was causing as much trouble as they were creating peace, and Steve was continually waiting for the earth-shaking feeling of yet another car bomb exploding. He'd grown used to that over the last month. Used to the way the walls rattled and the fragile glass of the lightbulbs shattered as the earth rumbled. He'd given up asking for his lights to be replaced. It wasn't like he did all that much once coming back into the room anyway. The fluorescent light in the bathroom still worked, so Steve relied on that when needed.

Beirut was the exact sort of place that Steve probably shouldn't be. After all that had happened, his nerves were shot to shit. Or at least, he suspected they were. Deep down, he flinched and wanted to run away every time he heard bullets, but his body had been conditioned otherwise. Despite everything he'd seen and done, and all that he had lost, he was still a soldier; still a warrior and Steve liked to think, a protector.

As much as he hated sleepless nights and sweaty palms and the sunken eyes that stared back at him from the mirror, he was made for this, and the world wasn't done with him yet. There were wars to fight and people to save and like it or not, Steve was a weapon made to do just that.

Like most military men, Steve had his wounds and scars and deep running regrets, but what was life if he didn't push forward and try to offer more? Maybe he'd somehow be able to make amends for all those he'd lost, and all those he'd wronged in the past. He wasn't here in any official government capacity. God only knew that Steve's days of working for America were done. His experience with SHIELD and the CIA had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and now even more than ever, he wasn't so sure that he could trust his country to be right.

Mistakes were made, and they came with heavy consequences. Maybe Steve would have better luck seeking penance on his own. Atone for the sins he'd made under Government control by making his own choices as an independent contractor.

Sam used the word mercenary, saying that it was inexplicably cooler; Independent Contractor made Steve sound like an insurance agent.

That was how he'd ended up here, playing mercenary protector to a humanitarian group working on transporting kids out of the war-torn city and into safe houses. It was gruelling work, and Steve had fired his gun more times than he'd ever thought he would, but it was rewarding, and it was _good_. The right choice and the only correct thing to do. It was kids, innocent kids. There was no moral grey area when it came to getting them to safety. 

Shrugging out of his lightweight overshirt and tossing it to the side, Steve's fingers shifted to the straps of his bulletproof vest. The action was known and borderline automatic from weeks and months of repeat, and after a full day in the hot sun and dust, all his mind thought about was getting the heavy Kevlar off and getting himself clean.

"Hey, stranger."

Steve paused, his back to the room and his hand wrapped around the bathroom door handle. It was loose to the touch, and Steve had long since stopped trying to close it. The lock would never slip into place, and on the rare occasions that it did, he had to rattle the door and neigh on break it down just to make it open again. 

But doors and handles didn't matter. Not right now.

Not anymore.

Breathing in deep, Steve took a moment to let those words replay in his head. Now that he thought about it, he was sure that he could smell the change in the room. It was subtle, but there was more of an earthy scent, more warmth and human existence that overpowered residual gunpowder and the smell of burning rubber and concrete dust.

Steve smiled.

If Steve was a more perceptive man, he would have noticed the subtle changes in the space long before Barnes had spoken. The bedspread was rumpled, suggesting that Barnes had taken a nap – or at least thrown himself on it after breaking in – and there was a bag large enough to house all sorts of illegal weaponry over in the corner.

But Steve didn't notice that. Didn't notice the way that bag was slightly open and emitting a soft, otherworldly blue glow into the room, nor did he see the scrunched-up protein bar wrapper that had been tossed towards the bin but had instead landed on the floor.

As Steve turned, all he noticed was Barnes.

_Bucky_.

He was there, draped in the armchair like an impatient king. Steve tried not to stare, but he did a terrible job. His eyes skimmed over hair that was dark as ever; longer now and pulled up into a messy nest of tousled curls and strategic knots. A bruise-like smudge sat above Barnes' right eye. It both covered the small scar Steve knew to be there, as well as highlighted the difficulties of his road here. He looked tired, but well. Whole.

_Alive_. 

Alive and well and _here_ , just as they'd promised, just like they'd planned.

"I'm glad you made yourself at home," Steve mused through a poorly concealed smile. They were familiar words, spoken into the dark and the man that lingered in the shadows. It wasn't the first time they'd had this dance, even if Bucharest did feel like a lifetime ago. Even if half of it was a lie. 

As Barnes smiled, Steve felt the world shift and move under his feet. For the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn't because of a car bomb or a tilting helicopter. Or shifting ice. It was because Steve was falling, and gladly so. 

When push came to shove, Barnes meant more to Steve than any allegiance with any government. Keeping him alive and safe was paramount, and the best way for that to happen was for Barnes to be dead. They'd both known that he could never return to the States, not even after his contribution to Steve's case. There'd be tribunals and hearings, questions of motive and true allegiances; endless interviews and interrogations. Possibly incarceration. 

The CIA would never leave him be, nor would the Soviets.

They'd contemplated leaving Barnes out of the story entirely, but there was no telling what Rumlow had reported back. To omit the Romanian spy's involvement would only arouse suspicion in what was clearly a compromised department, and the fewer questions and severed threads Steve left, the better. 

In that interview room, Steve had told Agent Sitwell precisely what the CIA needed to hear to stop further digging. 

Steve had weaved his webs of lies and deceit, warping reality and omitting the truth. The CIA didn't need to know how he'd been marched at gunpoint through the Pillars; how everything had played out afterwards. They didn't need to know Barnes, ever a dark, shadowy force of destruction, had survived his perceived death. How he'd stalked the remaining Soviets and picked them off one by one. Ruthless, efficient, and brutal. An ice pick to the eye, and he was gone before the soldier screamed; a rope nicked in the night and a gunshot to push panic and instigate a fall.

The same went for Rumlow. It was best left unsaid how Steve had strangled Rumlow with his bare hands, or how Barnes had watched on silently. Rumlow was Steve's to kill, and Barnes hadn't questioned it. Not even after all the history that remained unspoken between the two double agents.

As for what they found out in the icy snowdrifts of the Siberian wilderness? Well, Steve had always believed that no government agency was equipped to deal with that knowledge. 

They'd crafted his story well – he and Barnes – and Steve had learned to hide his ticks and school his features. Barnes had seen to that, training and moulding him during the time they'd spent together in Mongolia.

"Yeah. Well. Next time _you_ get to carry around the weapon of mass destruction, and _I_ get to holiday in Vienna."

Barnes was all snip and snark, and Steve would have loved it. Would have happily lost himself in one of Barnes' angry tirades just to hear his voice after so long, but he was far too busy almost tripping over his own feet to _finally_ pull Barnes closer and bridge the gap between them. 

_The end... for now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. So, two things! 
> 
> **One!**
> 
> That Unreliable Narrator tag has been there since the very beginning! Just nestled in there. Nice and cute and cuddly and totally overlooked. NO ONE called me out on it directly, though _rosiedeplume_ totally gets the cookie for being the first to outright say that, and I quote: " _some withholding of truth going on in Steve's retelling_." 
> 
> There were a few places where a few people did seem to get close to thinking that 'something was up', but no one went "wait; this entire story is Steve POV as told by Steve to a government agent who also happens to be Sitwell who is ALWAYS evil and Steve should know better." 
> 
> There was even a line in the last chapter about how ' _that was the most honest Steve had been all interview_ ' which was designed as a big old hint.
> 
> **Two!**
> 
> This does beg the question of what is real and what isn't! Ok, so Steve lied and said that Bucky died out there, and he said that he didn't find the staff. That two big things, right. 
> 
> But if that's the case… What else might be a lie?? Given that the last paragraph suggests that he and Bucky are about to make like rabbits in a decrepit hotel room in Lebanon, you gotta ask yourself this: when did they start fucking? How much of their relationship was Steve censoring? Was anything that he told Sitwell about Bucky even true?? Those times that you were angry with Steve, or felt he was stupid, or maybe you thought ' _wow, that happened easily_ ' about something… well… was it real, or was it Steve's fabricated lie?
> 
> … I guess you'll just have to keep an eye out for more in this series. Which brings me to a sort of third point. 
> 
> **The Lup Rosu Files!**
> 
> The idea of turning this into a series came when putting the finishing touches on the last few chapters. You see, I didn't want to explain everything. I didn't want to bog the ending down with a hell of a lot of exposition and lots of 'tell' instead of show. I wanted it to end quick and snappy and leave the reader… satisfied but still questioning. 
> 
> So that's where the series will come into it, and let me tell you, I've found some really cool ways to answer all those questions in your heads, while also expanding and building and moving these boys through very fulfilling character arches! I'm not going to give much away here, but I might put some WIP teasers up over on [my blog](http://minkawrites.com/a-blog/) (that I keep forgetting to do things with) as we go. 
> 
> Publicly though, I will tell you three truths and one lie.
> 
>   * There are currently 3 more parts planned. 
>   * None of these parts will be more than a one-shot. 
>   * We will get into Bucky’s POV. 
>   * There will be hints of smut. 
> 

> 
> What's the lie? 
> 
> I will also say this: **The next instalment of this series will hit AO3 next week!** It is a one-shot, and we all know how fast this fandom moves, so be sure to subscribe to the series or to me as an author, so you get notified. Because, as a teaser, my lovely beta claims it's the best thing I've ever created and written, so you really don't want to miss it. 
> 
> And FINALLY, here at the end of all things (and the End of All Days), I want to say thank you to everyone who has left their thoughts and ideas and theories. Whether you were here from the very start or came in halfway, I just want you to know that I really loved seeing your comments. It was so great to see people reading along and guessing at things, being smitten by mysterious spy Bucky, hating on Rumlow and wanting to slap Steve. It's been fantastic and I've enjoyed getting to know you all! 
> 
> On that note, If you loved this story – and now that it's finished – please feel free to rec it or share it around. I'm totally fandom social media incompetent so other than posting here and the occasional bingo fills that I put on discord, I really just don't know how to get it out there much.
>
>> _Steve watched the smoke trails of Barnes' cigarette curl and twist before disappearing into the twilight._
>> 
>> _The spy was oddly serene, his head turned towards the sky, his face bathed in moonlight. It made him look pale. All hollow skin and dark hair and frozen eyes. Steve remembered troubled times in gulag camps and the sound of helicopters overhead, but mostly the sight reminded him of otherworldly beauty._   
> 


End file.
